


Amil Lóme

by dehautdesert



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Angst, Author Knows Nothing, Dagor Dagorath (Kind Of), Flashbacks, Future Fic, Gen, Ghosts, Kind Of A Weird One, Major character death - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Not Canon Compliant, Not a Happy Story, Robots, Shyamalan Worthy Plot Twist, Technology, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, horrible things happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-14 05:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dehautdesert/pseuds/dehautdesert
Summary: Having waited over thirty thousand years as an unhoused spirit after the Fall of Gondolin, Maeglin finds himself re-embodied at the end of the Seventh Age, following the return of Melkor from the Void. Drifting between consuming fear and bottomless apathy and unable to face going back to his own people to beg forgiveness, he chooses once again to join the Dark Lord, with all the knowledge he has gained during his long wait applied to Melkor's cause.This, of course, means an army of killer robots.





	1. Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Folks, I am happy to announce that all the many, many things that are no doubt wrong with this fic, whether in terms of canon or in terms of basic principles of reality, can now be waved away with the 'not canon compliant' tag, and the 'Author knows nothing' other tag. I am now criticism-proof!
> 
> Anyway, not sure where to start with the Apology for this - I recently got back in to Middle Earth-verse, re-read the Silm and had a lot of ideas about Maeglin, probably because his character arc bears shocking similarity to that of my favourite character from another fandom (and reading this alongside fics I've written in that fandom... yeah, I've written them very similar to each other as well. Sigh. I've even warped Eol's character to sound more like the father of the other character... haha, I suck) - and this was the idea I had the most inspiration for during July Camp NaNoWriMo.
> 
> Thus this fic is actually finished, though I won't post it all in one go. It's about 42.5K, not counting the coda I plan on writing and I'm sure all true nerds will immediately guess what the entire story is leading up to... but if you do, I'd ask that you don't elaborate in the comments, in case someone who hasn't guessed reads them.
> 
> Seems a silly thing to worry about, but it has happened before. Anyway, I'll write other Notes before each chapter - here's the beginning of this madness...

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

…

…

…

IF YOU ARE LISTENING TO THIS PRE-RECORDED MESSAGE…

…

…

THERE ARE THOSE WHO I WOULD HAVE UNDERSTAND…

…

…

THAT I TRULY DO NOT REGRET MY CHOICES.

…

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

_The air is red, and screams are all around – not all of them real, he thinks._

_He feels he is moving slower than he should be, limbs weak, head light – there is a wound the Man managed to cut him with upon his neck but he does not feel it. The Man's face is a blur; it doesn't matter, it's like a dream, and every few moments he cannot help but look back to his cousin as she watches, frozen, horrified, the child's face turned in towards her stomach and held there firmly so that he cannot see; just to make sure she's still watching._

_Is her horror to see her cousin and her husband fight, he wonders, or is it just for her husband's safety? Certainly it is the latter, he thinks then, because she has misliked him so and for so long that she probably has no qualms with reconciling her beloved aunt's son and Prince of the city with the traitor who'd told her Melkor had promised him her hand in marriage as he'd dangled her son of the edge of a precipice._

_Oh yes, she'd well believe it._

_They all will, probably, if they can believe he has enough softness in him to feel desire for anything, for he knows what they all think about him. He hears their whispers. He sees that person's eyes reflected back at him in theirs. He doubts they'll ask a single question of it if anyone lives to tell this tale, and what with that escape tunnel he supposes that if the Man wins this battle then these three just might get out alive._

_He knows he should have told his new colleagues about that tunnel. It's not even like it could bridge him back to them unburnt or otherwise. But what does it matter, anyway?_

_What does any of it matter?_

_Somewhere close by a building falls. It shakes the ground beneath them hard enough to send the poorly balanced Man to one knee – and Maeglin might have taken advantage but_ she _screams his name, and the Man needs only that split-second of Maeglin's distraction to re-balance. But then there's a pause._

_He's looking back at Maeglin now with rage and disbelief – he does not yet believe and that is both laughable and pathetic. It's difficult to see behind the smoke, yet Maeglin can feel the emotion those hiding eyes are shining with._

_But he's always been the hardest person Maeglin's ever tried to read. He doesn't understand why. Because he is not an Elf, he supposes._

_And it's funny, because Maeglin had always thought that Elves who gave in to Morgoth became orcs._

_So maybe he isn't an Elf now either._

_"Is this what you wanted?!" the Man shouts at him, desperately. Why it matters so much to him to know, Maeglin couldn't say. "Is this how you want to be remembered!?"_

_Yes._

_Yes it is._

_It is, but he doesn't say so. He says, "Shut up," in a hiss that may indeed have come from an orc, and then he keeps fighting._

_Far away and growing further, the people keep screaming. The balrogs roar, the stone crumbles, the steel screeches against steel and the shadow seeps further and further into the valley. It's dark enough that it could almost be home._

_The effort from the Man in front of him is palpable, hanging in the air with every overwrought hack at him, and Maeglin idly wonders why a pathetic child is holding out for so long, but then, he doesn't feel like he's putting in any effort at all. He doesn't feel like he has any effort to use anymore, like the darkness is calling him to sleep, and he can't fight it._

_Why should he bother fighting it after all?_

_And there, just there, he raises his arm to block too slow, his grip too slack, and Anguirel flies over the edge of the cliff, hilt slick with blood from the long gash that's opened up across Maeglin's palm._

_He almost feels something when he sees that sword disappear forever. Not enough to stop his hand from grabbing at the Man's wrist when he tries to go for a finishing blow – he uses the bloodied palm to slap the fool across the face, but the superior strength of his grip cannot induce his opponent to drop his own weapon, so he cannot let go, and the Man is well within reach of his one free arm._

_When he takes it, Maeglin tries to free himself but once before he decides not to even bother. It's fine like this, and he's not foolish enough to believe he would have made it out of this alive anyway._

_"Is this what you wanted?" the Man asks, one more time. His grip is strong, too strong for one of his race, like he's sucked all of Maeglin's strength into himself and radiates it back out with a brightness, and it's then, only then, that Maeglin realises where, exactly, he is standing._

_Clear as day, and therefore not really clear at all, Maeglin remembers the moment they threw his father off this cliff. And this isn't what he wanted at all, no – this is the opposite of that, though even in his nightmares it had never been some worthless Man holding him over his Doom._

_Should have spent less time making swords and more time practicing with them, he supposes._

_But what answer should he give the Man's stupid question, as if he even deserves an answer? This isn't_ his _home after all. Not that it had been to most of the exiles who'd set up here either, and not that it is to Maeglin, but honestly. Who does this upstart think he is?_

_Well, Maeglin supposes he thinks himself Ulmo's chosen one, which is very nearly funny, because if he is then he isn't doing a very good job of it._

_Is this what he wants?_

_"Shut up," he spits again._

_He tilts his head back and looks at the darkness of a starless sky thick with red-tinged smoke. Like the bonfire smoke creeping over the leaves of a pitch-dark forest, trying to find its way to the surface._

_"Just shut up."_

_The Man leans closer, speaks right into his ear._

_"It didn't have to end this way, Lómion! None of this had to happen!"_

_Maeglin looks off to the side and sees her still there, eyes wider than he'd ever seen beneath that frown, hair glinting pale gold against the firelit night. Her gaze was on her husband until he looked her way, and then their eyes meet, and her face twists into a grimace like she's watching the death of someone she despises. Which, he supposes…_

_Well, anyway, he turns back to the Man and tells him plainly, "I'm not Lómion, you fool."_

_He looks at_ her _again, then back._

_"I never was."_

_There's a moment where he sees in the Man's eyes the impulse to simply drop him, disabled, and leave him there alive to contemplate his fate, and he can't have that, so he jerks his head up and smashes it against the Man's nose._

_She screams, and he jerks back, throwing Maeglin away from himself, which would have been an excellent exit strategy for Maeglin if he hadn't been so close to the edge of the cliff. As it is he's able to take one step back, heel grazing the corner of the rock, before his centre of gravity takes him over, and down._

_After that, he doesn't really have much time to contemplate his fate._

_He's_

_F_

_A_

_LL_

_I_

_NG_

_Although, he'd felt so hardly present by the end a part of him still wonders why he isn't just floating away before he hits the ground._

_There his body breaks, but his father's curse does not come to pass, for Maeglin's old dreams failed long ago, and this is not the end either._

Lómion.

_He hears the voice with more than just his ears. He hears it throughout his entire body – soul rather, for the body can do nothing now but burn._

Lómion.

_No Elf, or thing that once was an Elf, could fail to recognise the call, he thinks. He doesn't quite know how to feel about Lord Namo's choice of appellation though, since he doesn't feel like Lómion anymore._

_He doesn't know if he ever really did. He doesn't know if he feels like much of anything._

Lómion, follow my voice. It is time to hear my judgement.

_If Maeglin had had a body to sigh with, he'd sigh. It's difficult not to let this lack of strength, this apathy, pull him along towards the voice of the Vala, but he knows he mustn't go. Mustn't follow that voice._

Lómion, come to me now.

_It's a gentle voice. He almost really wants to go._

Lómion.

_But what would be the point?_

_He is Moriquendi, after all._

_He does not belong in the light._

Lómion…

_The voice is fading away. But another voice, achingly familiar, is suddenly sharp and clear beside him._

"Well, well, well. Are you sure it's all right for a Golodhrim Prince to be hanging around in the land of lesser elves after he's already dead?"

_Oh, how Maeglin would sigh if he'd still had use of his body. He should have guessed that one would still be hanging around the land of 'lesser elves' as well._

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Maeglin doesn't feel the weight of flesh and bone holding him together again for over thirty thousand years.

He has watched and waited ever since that long fall.

Watched closely. Waited long.

The Ages pass and kings and tyrants rise and fall. Men come to take control of the world as all others disappear, and what they make of it Maeglin is sometimes still astonished by.

He's watching the 435th annual World Amateur Robotics Championships when Melkor escapes and pulls the Moon into the Void behind him.

He finds himself a little annoyed that there had still been three rounds to go when that tsunami had destroyed the stadium and most of the contestants.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Things happen very fast after that.

The merciful Valar reveal Aman as a replacement Moon that stabilises the gravitational field of the world of Men and saves them from utter annihilation, though the initial death toll is still massive.

Melkor had counted on this though, and – having learned to open portals between Eä and the Void – materialises one inside of Valinor, inside the Halls of Mandos, which simultaneously destroys the Halls and brings Sauron back as well.

The gist of this is that Namo has very little time to react, and without thought restores bodies to the few Elves who had still been in the Halls, and those that still walked the shores of Middle Earth, to protect them from the chance of Sauron using Necromancy.

This includes Maeglin, though he imagines not by Namo's choice.

After that, the Men have a decision to make.

For Ulmo appears to them and tells them to join their brother Elves, and the Dwarves who have also been released from stone, and avenge the great destruction caused by the Moon's loss.

And Melkor appears to them and tells them to destroy the Elves, or he will do the same thing to the Sun as well.

(he'll do this anyway, of course – as soon as he figures out how, since Arien is heavily protected now)

It would have seemed to an Elf to be no choice at all, but Men have long since forgotten any reality of Elves and magic – such things are fairy stories that don't even barely resemble the songs of old – and they are panicked and terrified, and many fear Melkor more than they hate him.

And many of them choose Melkor.

And even those that don't, are not the type of Men the Elves remember.

Melkor promptly seizes the forgotten lair of Khazad-Dum as his seat of power, with Sauron taking the former dwarrow kingdoms in the Blue Mountains, and everything west of what were once known as the Misty Mountains falls under their sway – along with two other blocks in the south and far south-east for various reasons of tedious modern politics.

(That's not too surprising. Those western lands look very different to what they had before Imladris had faded away and the race of Hobbits had vanished as mysteriously as they'd arrived, and war and faction fighting has been rife there as long as the current history of Men remembers.)

Those Men that would follow Melkor; their leaders rather, he demands to convene outside his kingdom to pay him tribute in exchange for great power, and many flock there. It is reported in the media that the Elves are 'frantic' when they ask the Men to use some of their new 'craft' to stop their fellows from attending this meeting, perhaps even attack it directly, but the days when Men gave commands such as those in a heartbeat and not after days of negotiation, when international treaties several volumes long didn't need to be consulted and debates that went nowhere weren't the norm have been long dead, and the Men simply don't understand the situation.

That, Maeglin thinks privately, is not their fault. They had never asked the Elves to leave, and the one nation that does declare itself allies to the Elves from the outset is, unsurprisingly, next-door neighbour to Thranduil's enduring realm – with whom he understands there is still some, limited contact.

…

Maeglin has his own choices to make and mental preparations to realise though. Plans that must be executed on a very short timescale and with great difficulty, and it's a good thing he's had such a long time to think it over, and that Men have made such advancements in so many areas.

Areas such as spectrometers that can analyse the planet's crust in minute detail for traces of desired ores…

… or other substances.

Areas such as amateur robotics. And there is one choice Maeglin has made Ages since.

He joins the queue offering their allegiances to Melkor as soon as possible.

…

No, that's not true.

He stalks to the front of it, flanked by six of his new followers, and only waits long enough for the two Men currently holding Melkor's attention to finish presenting their cases before he brings forth his own.

This occurs when one of the Men, a middle-aged warlord from that region on the southern continent in about as much chaos as western Middle Earth, has his brains blown out by his rival, a much younger, much less stable militia-leader – now, Maeglin supposes, also warlord – by the name of Kasuelar.

"Allow me to make a counter-proposal, King Boss-man," Kasuelar declares loudly, over the gasps of the onlookers, "that General Gurungti cannot effectively command any force under your control without that brain of his."

He pauses.

"I mean, he couldn't really have done it before, with such a brain as that, but you know, people understand each other better with visual aids."

Melkor is clearly impressed. Sauron, menacingly-plated arms folded neatly beside their master, is just as clearly of the opposite opinion, and Maeglin doesn't need to see the glowing eyes beneath his coal-dark helm to perceive it. He shares the opinion, in fact, but assumes Melkor will kill the young upstart as soon as his obvious propensity for ridiculous hijinks loses a battle for the first time.

"Indeed, Kasuelar of Bellin Balurin," says Melkor, jaws mangling the pronunciation of a place named in a language that had never had need to speak the name of Morgoth. "Whereas you will prove amusing, if nothing else."

Maeglin seizes his chance.

"When the human first begins to bore you, you shall not lack for occupation if I have anything to say of it, Lord Melkor."

The terrible eyes find him before he's finished speaking and he must dig his nails into his palms not to tremble before the even more terrible recognition that enters them.

Physical pain, for now, is still unfamiliar enough to him to accomplish this, but he has no doubt that will change soon enough, and sooner than he'd probably have expected.

"Lómion!" Melkor greets him, waving away the orcs who had noticed with dismay an Elf unapologetically in their midst and had been heading swiftly to his apprehension. "Our dear friend. That's a new body you have, if I'm not mistaken."

If it hadn't been, there was no way he could have been there.

"A mistake on Namo's part to have provided me with one, which he'll soon learn," Maeglin states matter-of-factly.

He strides out before the throne that sits atop the valley Imladris once blessed, no doubt pointed out to Melkor by Sauron, whose arms unfold slightly in surprise, before he decides to affect a casual response to Maeglin's sudden appearance.

Meanwhile Melkor's attention shifts for a fraction of a second to the six followers who flank Maeglin's entrance. Armoured warriors they would seem to be, at first, but Melkor would have known within that same fraction that there were no fëa within their casings – only wires and metal, and hidden commands written in ones and zeroes. Codes that Maeglin has been perfecting in his mind for centuries, among other devices he cannot wait to bring forth into the world.

But Melkor, of course, has none of the references needed to realise that he gazes upon the world's first combat-ready robots. Soon, he'll be distracted by a different matter.

"No doubt," he says, with as much amusement as before.

It's so out of keeping with Maeglin's imagination of how this encounter would go that the next thing he hears is –

"The fuck? Who's this fucking gay-boy?"

 – that for a moment he's stunned into silence.

It's the Man Kasuelar who asks the question, a disapproving appraisal on his face as he looks Maeglin up and down. Kasuelar is one of the darkest-skinned Men that walk the earth, his hair as black as Maeglin's own, though it falls in matted clumps called 'dreadlocks', and his eyes are a few shades lighter brown. A row of steel studs up one side of his face projects intimidation onto other Men, and the desire to find the most powerful magnet he can in Maeglin.

"Lómion Maeglin," says Melkor. "A treasured ally of ours from days gone by, and one much ill-used by the evil Elves who carry out the tyranny of the Valar."

So he's using that line again.

"If you would still use me better, Master," Maeglin says, "accept my allegiance here – and this gift, as a token of my gratitude for freeing me from their control."

He doesn't believe what he's saying, of course. Even delusional Lord Melkor probably knows that. And it's not to say he has no choice in this either…

But it's not like he can go back to _them_.

Well, anyway, he snaps his fingers and according to pre-arranged commands the robot behind him on his right passes to him a box that had been secreted beneath its wings.

The box is made of _galvorn_ , which lets no light escape it.

When he opens it, a light is seen in the world that has not been looked upon since Maedhros Fëanorion took it with him into the bowels of the earth, in fire and pain.

Maeglin hadn't seen that part.

But he'd guessed enough about the Silmaril's composition to be able to find it with a stolen spectral-analyser.

The awe of all who occupy the room is palpable; men gape wide-eyed, orcs shudder and draw back, the four balrogs present raise themselves up and flex their wings and Melkor – oh, what a terrible sight he makes, so gleeful and so full of hatred at the same time.

Then Kasuelar promptly ruins the moment by leaning over Maeglin's shoulder obnoxiously and remarking, "Hey – a shiny!"

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

_He stands above Lómion, a being of unimaginable power, so angry, and Lómion so small before him._

_But through this so inescapable nightmare he has, in his mercy, offered a single escape._

_And Lómion is so, so scared._

_"And so I ask you, Lómion – " he speaks, and the world around them seems to tremble. "Will you do this thing?"_

_Lómion's wet hair feels so heavy his head is being pulled right down to the ground. He clenches his fists so hard he wouldn't be surprised to find bloody indents in his palms, and bitterly he sobs out –_

_"Yes. Yes, I'll do it."_

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

The great airborne warship of Melkor, gifted to him by the largest of the nations of Men who had offered him allegiance, traverses the skies with a Silmaril set upon it, within a protected cache. Melkor bestows upon the monstrous craft the name _'Ultimate Annihilation'_.

The 'King of the World' never has been a fan of subtlety.

The cache is not foolproof protection, Maeglin can see that easily – it practically begs for some daredevil to pull off Luthien's stunt and claim it for themselves – but he doesn't care, the Silmarils are less than nothing to him, with their loud and grating light.

Melkor had been practically giddy to get even one of them back though, so Maeglin finds himself immediately within the upper echelons of his command – tasked with all combat counter-strategy against the 'faithless' world of Men, for who better to know their ways than one who has been stuck dwelling among the base creatures for the past thirty thousand years?

This does not make him any friends among the Men who have chosen Melkor as their Lord, but since he has no great love for Men, Maeglin cares not.

And so, the great war between the Valar and their errant Brother commences once again.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

In the early days of the new War, Maeglin spends most of his time in his own ship, working on his robot troops. Nothing like them has ever been realised in the world before, though robots have been responsible for a myriad of other tasks for generations, and drone warfare is certainly past its infancy. Yet Men have been wary so far of going that last step and seeing the creations of comic books and films brought to reality.

Maeglin is not.

Maeglin's robots are soon known by the Men, and then by Maeglin because why not? – as 'Beetles': mostly black, their armour being of a _galvorn_ -titanium alloy, and humanoid in shape but for the 'wings', in reality a jet pack that tucks beneath a beetle-like shell when not in use – looks something like a cape, unless it is extended out to catch the wind. They later receive a decorative antenna to show his allies he cares not what they call his creations, and are probably the only things in his new life that bring him close to happiness. ~~~~

In that respect things haven't changed much from his days in Gondolin, except the armour he forges now needs organs and muscles as well as skin.

But whatever.

 

 

*~*~*

 

_The first clockwork automaton is created in the Fifth Age, somehow, while great hordes of militaristic Emperors claim vaster and vaster territories across the world. It may not seem like much later on, but Maeglin is astonished at how the metal person bends at the waist as if in prayer in exact intervals every time it is wound._

_"It won't last," Eöl tells him – annoying him with his presence even now, even as no one else in the room can see or hear them._

_Maeglin normally tries not to acknowledge the wretch if he can help it, but this time is compelled without thinking to ask – "You think even creatures as useless as Men can deny the implications such a device creates!?"_

_Eöl smirks at him in a way that still makes him feel like his heart is shrinking, long without a heart or any other muscle though he's been._

_"No. But Emperor Haruthri's forces have been circling around for days and will attack within another three. They'll chop this 'Automaton' to bits along with the Man who made it, and who knows how long it will be before someone comes along with the mind to build something like it?"_

_He's right, of course – after Minas Tirith was razed, southern Rohan had only been a matter of time._

_And it's two thousand, four hundred and twenty-three years before the next one, which isn't even as good as the first. That Fifth Age had been a real shitshow._

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Cloning orcs who had been in suspension in the depths of the earth for tens of thousands of years multiplies their numbers much faster even than they had bred themselves in Ages past – especially when gene-manipulation speeds their growth up.

This takes less time than it takes the Valar to find a quick way of moving their own forces between Valinor and Arda.

And the orcs also take to modern weapons of war, to a degree. The vast majority are unable to handle weaponry that takes skill, like fighter jets, but if the only necessary actions are 'point and shoot' and the range of fire is wide enough that 'point' is really only half necessary, they manage quite well.

Maeglin spends little to no time among them though, which suits him well.

"So, if you're an Elf that joined the Boss-man willingly, how come you stayed pretty, unlike all those fuckers?"

He spends more time than he'd like co-ordinating battle plans with Kasuelar, the trigger-happy psychopath called 'The Black General' by the public.

Melkor has grown far more fond of this Man than Maeglin would have liked.

"Because I wasn't stupid enough to defy him over meaningless principles long enough that he _made_ me look like one of them," he replies.

They're in council and Sauron is giving a long, boring recap of the Elven heroes of the first Three Ages so their human allies know who to watch out for now that the Elves have begun sending troops to Middle Earth. Maeglin has no need to listen to it, but the Man Melkor has sat next to him for his own amusement (they've been riling each other up ever since Maeglin interrupted Kasuelar's grandstanding with an even grander standing of his own) apparently doesn't care about what Sauron is saying.

"So he was like, 'join me, or I'll fuck you up', and you were like, 'okay'?"

"In a nutshell."

There was, of course, that one _other_ thing they'd discussed, but Maeglin prefers not to think about that if he can help it. It embarrasses him.

"Huh. And you were the only Elf ever that this actually worked on?"

"Apparently."

"That's fucked up, Princess."

Maeglin isn't sure whether Kasuelar knows he actually is royalty or whether 'Princess' is just a comment on his bearing and effeminate-by-human-standards looks. Assuming the Man has listened to any of Sauron's lecture, he must know at least by now of Maeglin's lineage.

Then again, Sauron certainly doesn't simply assume when he asks –

"Something I can help clarify, General Kasuelar?"

Kasuelar affects an exaggerated expression of fear at have been caught talking in class and replies, "Oh, sorry, man. Was this all going to be on the test?"

"The test of whether you manage to bring in alive any of the individuals Lord Melkor wants brought in alive instead of just blowing them up?" Sauron replies sarcastically. "Yes."

No one else notices it, of course – no one else could but Melkor, and him too self-obsessed to see by Maeglin's reckoning – but Sauron has changed since they first met. There's a fear in him that wasn't there thirty thousand years before, and Maeglin can hear it beneath the irreverence in his tone. Can see it in the twitch in his hand. In that one ring-finger.

The power of the Void is fearsome indeed.

"Fuck, man," says Kasuelar. "All these fuckers look the same – either like Princess here or like fucking elf-warrior Opalia or something, like that fucker."

He nods his head towards the prisoner kneeling next to the head of the table, wrists bound tight enough to break skin behind his back while lank, silver-blonde hair waves with each of his wheezing breaths, blown into the eyeless iron mask that holds his face.

Maeglin sighs. He doesn't remember them bringing out the POW version of one of those blonde Opalia dolls, but perhaps Kasuelar would know better than he.

"Could it perhaps just be, General, that you haven't actually seen any Elves other than myself and that waste of space over there?"

The prisoner shakes differently, indicating a chuckle.

"Come now, Lómion, 'waste of space' is a little harsh," Sauron tells him. "Lord Melkor was very much hoping to have this individual for our cause."

And there's something else Maeglin has been trying not to think of.

"He may hope as he wishes, but I still advise against it. This creature is little better than an animal."

Sauron smirks, seeing an opening that manages to banish that lingering fear Maeglin has been sensing, if only for a few seconds.

"But Lómion, if your father is little better than an animal, what does that make you?"

Kasuelar gasps next to him, but it's insincere; followed by a whispered 'dun, dun, dun!'. He likely cares as much about Maeglin's relationship with this prisoner as Maeglin does.

As Maeglin tells himself he does.

"My own person," he says shortly. "With no qualms about putting down a mad dog."

With Mandos destroyed the fate of the souls of Elves slain in battle is currently unknown, but if Melkor should order Eöl's death, Maeglin will comply, for he knows Melkor well enough to know how much amusement he'd have from making him the one to carry out the order.

Then, before anyone else present can remark, the prisoner himself lifts his head up and chuckles weakly, almost choking on the sound he makes.

"But what if someone jumps in front of the bullet, _my prince_?"

Without hesitation Maeglin leaps out of his chair and is upon the prisoner, delivering a roundhouse kick to the masked head that knocks it right against the floor with a pained hiss.

He isn't even feeling so much the lingering pain from that thing that happened literal Ages of the world ago, but the knowledge of what Eöl refers to is like a command like one of his robots might have received through their programming – there's an automated response inside him that he doesn't even think about, and the dull ache comes from something very different than that ancient memory.

"Shall we see," he spits, "how much longer it takes you to hit the ground when thrown from one of this ships airlocks than it did when you were thrown from the cliff-face beyond Gondolin?!"

Maeglin gives him another kick for good measure, to the stomach this time.

The prisoner still chuckles as he wheezes his way up onto his elbow.

"Would that be more or less time than it took you, ion nin?"

Before he can get more than half a laugh out from his own joke, Maeglin brings his boot up to the prisoner's neck and stamps it down to the steel floor, grinding until he hears the choking sound rattle and then continuing to grind because he knows Lord Melkor will enjoy this irony when watching the recording later. It's probably the only part of the recording he'll bother watching.

It makes him want to shiver, the feel of Eöl's throat, vulnerable against his boot, remembering all the times… all the times…

But Melkor _has_ expressed his interest in obtaining the services of the inferior, older model, and so Maeglin calculates the last moment he can choke the other Elf before Sauron will have to intervene and then steps away from him in disgust before he does.

"I need to run more tests on the reaction times of the automated troops," he announces, in a voice that sounds like he's the one who's been screaming for hours.

He walks out without another word and no one stops him. They can do what they like with Eöl as far as Maeglin is concerned; he was the one stupid enough not to go to one of the power blocs for protection and then let himself get captured. But the last thing he hears from the room is that annoying Man, remarking,

"I guess we call him Princess Daddy-Issues from now on?"

Which makes him wonder if he won't be able to find a way to throw _him_ out of an airlock too.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Social media makes keeping secrets all but impossible these days, which is why Maeglin feels no sympathy for Eöl being discovered, since he's been around long enough to know that as well as any Man.

He had felt a little flutter of pride though, when his father had looked the Beetles holding his arms back up and down and said, "Impressive," and said it sincerely too.

Maeglin had been sure to say thank you before ordering the robots to kneecap the bastard and take him back to _Annihilation_.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 


	2. Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of This.
> 
> Don't think there's anything I should mention... although, one character does make reference to an 'Opalia' in the text, and maybe I should say that while from the beginning I had wanted Future!Middle-Earth to be very much distinct from our world, in the first drafts the term 'Barbie' was used (as in, Barbie Doll). I changed it after deciding it would be too much of a coincidence for Future!Middle-Earth and our world to both have a line of dolls with the exact same name and hair colour, even though it would help the readers understand the reference better. But there are a few things we have in common with F!ME, such as an 'internet' and other stuff.
> 
> Anyway, feel free to ask me any questions, and I will try to provide an answer. Enjoy!

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

There's a certain satisfaction in a job well done, Maeglin finds. That feeling that's almost like contentment.

Three years into the War his Beetles have destroyed the city of Lo, treasure of one of the most prominent of the nations of Men attempting 'neutrality' in this conflict. Debris from its comparatively ancient towers still crumbles down the hillside to the shore of the enormous lake this island-city lies on.

He eats the region's signature green-tea ice cream for the first time as he sits in his ship and waits for the after-action report. Many of the Beetles have been destroyed, and they hardly grow on trees so it's not yet his place to say that this excursion has been cost-effective. Honestly, given Lo's non-interference policy, he doubts it – unless the event spurs other, undecided nations into joining Melkor from fear of facing the same reprisals.

It would have been much more effective against an actual enemy, he thinks.

On the other hand, he has wondered what ice cream tastes like for almost five thousand years now, and it's nice to have the opportunity to try what is reputedly the best.

He'd spent even longer wanting to try coffee when it had been brought from southern continents to Middle Earth, only to find upon re-embodiment that it was actually disgusting, and that had been a let-down.

The spoon clinking against the bowl sounds unbearably loud. Its vibrations clash against those of the hammering of his heart and his fingers start to tremble.

He fears no mention of this from the Beetles though. It's not in their programming. Bees probably would have been a better name for them; allies and enemies alike will soon be referring to his forces as 'the Swarm', for their attack pattern; tens of thousands of individual units and hundreds of command jets, any one of which can serve as the central hub for the formation should the main one, Maeglin's own ship, be destroyed. That, and they have a powerful 'sting'.

But the real trick with the Beetles has been the swarming, the completion of the dozens upon dozens of tests, refining and retuning that has ensured they won't fly into each other during an attack, or during stand-by mode when they're still in motion to confuse enemy fire.

His colleagues probably don't realise just how much work needs to go into something like that. Melkor is clearly of two mind about the Beetles, because they are effective and ineffably loyal, but they do not know pain or fear, and thus provide him with little emotional satisfaction to lord over.

Their movements though, need to be so _precise_ …

Maeglin cannot stop thinking about it. One wrong move. One wrong move and it could have set off a devastating chain reaction.

Yes, the Beetles' movements must be very precise. He watches them flying over the open water for a while before he gets his recall order.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

His counterparts' attack upon Valinor does not end nearly as well for their side as the Swarm's devastation of Lo.

Melkor had been certain the Elves and Valar would have no hope of fending off the power of a bombardment of nuclear weapons, but he'd been wrong – and the arsenal they could have used to devastate Arda instead meets the mighty magical barrier that Manwe and Varda create  – exhausting them, reputedly (and everything ends up online these days as soon as a Man with an internet connection and basic literacy skills hears about it) – but saving Aman from not only the tremendous heat explosions, but also the entirety of the fall out.

And the land Melkor controls now has no available plutonium to construct more.

Melkor is not happy about this.

He stands upon the walkway above their one-of-a-kind power station, staring into their main source of energy as though he could make it combust the same as Fëanor supposedly combusted, just by the power of his hatred.

The station, and millions of homes and businesses throughout the lands they control, is powered by turbines turned by the gravitational effect caused by the open portal to the Void they have stabilised within this compound.

Sauron is there too, helmed and mailed in his usual attire, and yet cutting beneath that Maeglin can't help but see the face of vertigo, being so close to the Void.

He approaches without announcing himself, and stops and kneels on the walkway silently.

Maeglin is one of the only people they know of who doesn't mind being in this room.

(though he'd prefer being on his ship, doing his work.)

"Lómion," Melkor greets, beckoning him to stand up, beside him, on the other side of the perfectly clear panel of glass between them and the portal.

It swirls like a whirlpool before them.

"Master," Maeglin replies. He'd also prefer not to be called 'Lómion', but it's nothing to him if Melkor respects his Noldor heritage more than his Sindar. Maeglin hates them both, after all.

"How is your father settling in?"

"He's useless," Maeglin tells him. "As I knew he would be."

A few hoarse chuckles, like ice scraping against itself, leave his master. Looking at Maeglin only for a second he raises one great arm and trails the tips of his fingers through the back of Maeglin's long black hair.

Maeglin remains completely, utterly still beneath their ice.

"Ah, Lómion. I am so glad you are here."

There's a long pause of almost companionable silence.

"I should have listened when you advised against using nuclear weapons on Aman. I only thought that if we had surprised them… never mind. Tell me, do you know what is on the other side of that portal?"

He nods towards the endless Void.

"Nothing, Master," Maeglin replies. "Or so I've heard."

"Oh, yes," spits Melkor, the anger creeping up his throat, " _Nothing_. Nothing whatever. You lesser beings do not understand what that truly means – cannot comprehend it. You may think you've known it wandering this earth all this time, but you can never know 'Nothing' while in this place – filled, filled with so much… matter, you are glut of it the moment you are born!"

He continues, darker still.

"A lesser being might pick up a lump of wood and say it was neither hot nor cold. They do not see – they do not understand that in this world there is _heat_ even in a block of ice! The Helcaraxë your ancestors crossed was swimming with it! But Elves are so coddled by the warmth of Arda that even that slight decrease was so fatal for so many. And as for Men – !"

The creature laughs, more terrible than any sound he's made yet.

Then, abruptly, he breaks off and gives Maeglin a curious look that Maeglin can see even though his own gaze is being kept wisely downwards.

"Tell me, Lómion, what do you suppose would happen if an Elf were to be thrown into the Void as I was?"

This is not the first time Maeglin has considered the question.

"He would freeze instantly, I suppose," he says.

"Indeed," says Melkor. "Down to the last drop of blood – to the last fragment of brittle bone he would freeze. But that is not all, for as your skin keeps all your innards in…" the fingers that had still been twisting Maeglin's hair trail down his arm like a spider, "so too does the very weight of the air keep you and all your people from falling apart entirely. In the Void, an Elf like you would burst into a million frozen droplets in an instant!"

Feeling as though he should make some response to that at least, and being unable to think of words that really fit, Maeglin takes one, pointed step back, away from the glass.

It seems to amuse Melkor, who pats the top of his head fondly, as he would a dog.

"Fear not, Lómion. You are under my protection. But when I get my hands on your grandfather, and his thrice-damned brothers, I swear to the Void itself that I will flay their skin and knit the three of them together before I throw them in – and then will the sons of Finwe know cold, and nothingness, and everlasting darkness!"

The Void trembles at this dark pronouncement. As if excited.

Melkor's own darkness-mottled fingers sit tighter on Maeglin's head, thumb running over one of the grooves in his helmet.

"Not even all the Valar working together could find and rescue them from that nothingness," he whispers.

Then he leans in closer.

"Perhaps, not being as strong as mine or Mairon's, the fëa of an Elf would not linger long after the Void consumed its body. Perhaps the sons of Finwë will tear apart in soul as well; rot, and crumble into the same nothingness they would have consigned me to. Yes, I think that would make me very glad."

Maeglin struggles not to curl up on the walkway from being in such close proximity to such a being – manages to stay upright somehow and comes aware again when his master backs off just a touch.

"A _Dark Elf_ ," he snorts, contemptuously. "Your father has never known darkness. Make it clear to him he may yet, if he continues to defy me!"

"Yes, Master," Maeglin says, though he doubts Melkor will do such a thing.

Eöl isn't really worth the effort.

Sauron clears his throat behind them, and Maeglin gets the feeling he's been trying to steel himself enough to do so without giving away how uncomfortable this room makes him for a while now.

It's strange, but Maeglin almost feels pity for him.

"My Lord, we will need to retake Mount Doom if I am to re-forge the One Ring. Otherwise with the atom bombs defeated our best hope lies in resurrecting the dragons."

Melkor's pale yellow eyes narrow. Maeglin sees Sauron's mistake at once.

_One for the dark lord on his dark throne?_

There is only room enough for one Dark Lord in Arda.

"Then shall Ancalagon see light again," Melkor declares. Remarkably restrained of him, Maeglin thinks, but then there's something that's changed in this dynamic since he saw them both together first at Angband; something he cannot quite yet put his finger on. "Set up a team in Moria. Have the Men of this Age any knowledge that may be useful to us in such a venture, Lómion?"

Maeglin frowns. "I admit I have been far more interested in their mechanised weaponry," he says, "But I suppose the splicers who have been helping us with the orcs… they may have some ideas."

He looks up and out into the Void again.

It pulls his gaze in the way few other things have done in all the tens of thousands of years he's been aware. It's not just that it is a place of no heat, no light, no pressure; it's also something his eyes are not used to, something their sharpness cannot cut.

There is no intent in that blackness. No good. No evil.

Only Void.

"Yes," hisses Melkor. "Yes, and perhaps the Noldor will wish yet that they allowed themselves the quick death the nuclear devices offered. I will not be so kind to them in the future."

He turns to leave, but before he goes more than a half step he suddenly turns back.

"And speaking of Ancalagon that reminds me, Lómion – your pretty cousin; should you still want her for your bride I'll be glad to give you her…"

He grins. Dark teeth glisten with venom.

"… but her brat will be joining the sons of Finwë in eternal nothingness."

_… wide-eyed, confused, so confused – like he cannot even fathom why he's up so late after he should have gone to bed, let alone the destruction that rages all around them, he pulls against Maeglin's grip even as his own hands clutch desperately on the vambrace, for if Maeglin lets him go…_

_His mother is screaming behind them._

_(The child's mother, not Maeglin's…_

_Not Lómion's…)_

Maeglin feels, some way, somehow, it will not happen. Not to Eärendil and not to the sons of Finwë either, or if it does that some way, somehow they will be rescued anyway. He could not say what prompts this feeling; it would be very bad if it were but wishful thinking, for it is not a thing he'd want to think he'd wish for…

But he thinks it will not happen.

"I'll even let you throw him in yourself!" Melkor adds gleefully.

"My pleasure, Master," Maeglin tells him.

The master beckons his dogs then to follow him, turning towards the blank door to this blank room, footsteps heavy on the steel walk.

"Come then. We shall call a council forthwith concerning the dragons."

When he calls, Maeglin must come, and he doesn't really care that he must, for he's long-since grown used to being trapped.

But he hesitates.

And uses that hesitation to linger by the Void.

And look into it.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

_He's lying on his side against the rocks at the shallowest point of the stream they've camped by, wrists bleeding into each other behind his back. The water rushes past the right side of his face, cold – so cold, he tilts his head awkwardly to avoid breathing in any of the water._

_What is he going to do?_

_The orcs laugh behind him, taunting and speculating on his fate when they reach Angband, but he isn't listening._

_Even then, even before everything happens, he can feel what will happen. Not the events themselves, but a premonition of how he'll feel as he experiences them, and he cannot move._

_His hair floats out onto the water like black weeds, a single gleam of moonlight glinting off the locks._

_But that isn't right, he thinks._

_The Moon is gone._

_He looks up, and a blackness far darker than the night meets his eyes._

Then he wakes up in his room, in his chair at his workstation, a gutted Beetle lying motionless before him.

And he goes back to work.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

A crash outside his laboratory one day and the notification on his worktop screen that Beetle Unit 2692-B has been destroyed outside of a scheduled combat situation heralds the arrival of either Melkor, Sauron, or Kasuelar – since these are the only three who would feel comfortable destroying one of his guards instead of just asking them to be allowed past and knocking on the door without the robots trying to fire back.

… Maeglin will have to change that so they _will_ fire back if it's Kasuelar.

But this time it's Sauron. In his defence, he does knock after destroying the Beetle.

With his mace.

Caving the door in completely.

"I'm busy," Maeglin calls back at him, not looking up from his work.

Sauron takes this as a cheerful welcome and strolls in, leaving his mace at the door and then searching for a place to sit. Not finding one – Maeglin expects no guests other than his own Beetles, who do not need to sit, and his own bed folds up into the wall – he leans against the machinery next to Maeglin's desk and taps mailed fingers against his vambraces.

"Take a break," he suggests.

Maeglin clicks his tongue and pushes his ceiling-mounted headgear to the side, glaring at the Maia before him.

There's smoke from one of his Beetles, casing melted and wires burned to ash, coming in through the blackened doorway.

"Careless wasting of resources is detrimental to the war effort," he says – monotone.

Sauron waves a hand casually. "Refer it to my accounts department."

It's not even a joke. Too many of the Edain who work for them are too obsessed with amassing great fortunes for them to not have set up a system of economy for their forces, though Maeglin doubts Melkor ever involves himself in parliamentary debates over budget.

One would think the Men in question would have realised that their imagined wealth of ones and zeroes floating around cyberspace meant absolutely nothing more than what other Men allowed it to, but not yet.

Perhaps not until Melkor fulfils Eöl's old dream and destroys that pesky Sun.

With a sigh, Maeglin turns around and asks, still glaring, "What do you want, Mairon?"

Occasional use of the Maia's original name is a privilege granted by the fact that his death at Sauron's hands for such small irreverence is one Melkor would almost certainly punish Sauron grievously for.

But Sauron doesn't seem to mind so much today. Not that Maeglin can see his face beneath the monstrous visage of that black helmet; yet he can _see_ , and Sauron is only slightly annoyed by that name. He has something else he's more annoyed about, after all.

"I'm afraid we have a problem, Lómion."

Maeglin sighs. "Have you tried switching it off and switching it back on again?"

Sauron hasn't been back long enough to get the joke, or else has been back long enough to realise how tired it is and ignores it. "It's about these," he says.

The same hand he'd waved Maeglin's concerns away with comes back with a metal disk between two fingers, about an inch and a half in diameter; a mithril-titanium alloy on which is etched a pattern Maeglin recognises well.

He is the one who engraved it.

"The cipher-keys," he observes, guessing that Sauron is talking about the idea of them in general and not just that particular one. "What of them?"

Sauron tosses the token into the air and catches it. Maeglin thinks he might be smiling.

"Excellent craftsmanship, of course," says Sauron, needlessly. "I see you're working on one right now. It seems strange that you would bother to do so yourself when I'm sure your Beetles could manufacture them just as accurately. Unless you despise mass-production as much as your kin."

"Hardly," Maeglin say with a snort.

(It's not that he has no sympathy for the collection of recent essays translated from the original Quenya to the tongues of Men that have been circulating online, decrying the use of machine-made produce as the norm in human societies – but he has been here, watching, these past thousands of years and he understands why the Men have gone down this path.)

He glances back at his own crafts-machines. "Normally they would be making the discs, but this is a new cipher and I need to make sure it's as it should be."

"And that is why I'm here," Sauron tells him. "Impressed as I am with this system you've devised I have to say, the reason it's so difficult for our enemies to crack may lie in the fact that our own people can barely understand it either. And the frequency with which you change the ciphers has caused even more mistakes among the troops – yesterday we had an entire fleet of warships five miles south from where they should have been at Contari Point, and the entire affair was a disaster."

"I'm aware of that," Maeglin tells him. "And it would have been a disaster of even greater proportions had the ships been there to be destroyed with the rest of the artillery by the so-called Free Men of the East. Not that that helps with any lack of understanding of my system on the part of our own forces, I know, but if our Master has ordered you to ensure such a defeat never happens again then it's not me you need to be talking to."

Maeglin is pretty sure Sauron isn't smiling now.

"Oh, really?" their other Dark Lord spits icily. "And who, in your exalted opinion, do I need to be having words with instead?"

He has to know that Maeglin can't answer that because the answer is 'Melkor'. He is their master, he devises their strategy, and the one responsible for their defeat in this case is, ultimately, him. He and Sauron both know just as well it's neither the first nor the last time.

It dawns on Maeglin that he may have overstepped himself just now.

"Would you rather I etched a simpler code onto the surface of the key?" he asks, a little more subdued than before but still annoyed. " 'end-say arships-way oo-tay ontari-Cay oint-Pay'?"

Right now the etchings on the keys are composed of a number of carefully calculated geometric shapes, the dimensions and positioning of which along with the depth and angle of the grooves spells out the cipher needed to decode particular messages.

The key he had been working on before the interruption is the first one to use galvorn, and that in itself is an integral part of the cipher. He can tell the precise make-up of the alloy he's used in any one disc, as can the Beetles with their in-built composition analysers. And the composition of the alloy is only one part of the code.

When he puts it that way, it does sound a little complicated.

However, efficient as the encrypted streams of data used by Men are in terms of speed they are far too easy to hack into in Maeglin's opinion – and he should know, having witnessed the development of countless secret codes and ciphers throughout the Ages.

Battle plans and other secret communications are therefore better transported via these keys, whose alloy, dimensions, and of course whose etched symbols each form part of a code. And since apart from Maeglin and Sauron himself only the Beetles know all the components of the code, and are programmed to self-destruct upon capture, and since Maeglin routinely changes the cipher, the chances of the enemy discovering their battle-plans far enough in advance to plan effective counter-measures are slim.

He of all people has to keep such things in mind, given his history. This way, no one person has any idea how to decode any of the messages – some know the dimensions, some know the shapes on the etchings, only the Beetles know how the alloys factor in and only Maeglin and Sauron know all of these things at once.

And if either of them were captured, they'd probably know about it pretty quickly.

"Don't be ridiculous when you're the one constantly complaining about wasting time," Sauron snarls at him, and Maeglin has not forgotten the Maia's power – he flinches back. "The keys can't be deciphered without analysing the alloy, and no one can do that in good time without one of your Beetles. As for the code I'd hope there were a few middle roads between the obvious and the completely indecipherable."

"My codes are not indecipherable," Maeglin insists. "If the Men responsible for their translation cannot keep track of their meaning then they must be replaced by those who can."

"And the failures executed?" Sauron asks, for that is the price of failure for the Men under their command. "I have no qualms about it personally, but the order will be seen to come from you and they already dislike you enough."

Bitterly, Maeglin turns back to his work. "I care not for the love of Men," he tells Sauron. "You may not remember it, but my encounters with them in the past have not ended happily."

Sauron finds some humour in that, which is good since it means he'll be less likely to take any bad mood out on Maeglin, but Maeglin has been uncomfortably reminded of Tuor now – grinning, gormless Tuor with his never-ending good spirits and attempts to foster friendship... even when he'd been holding Maeglin at the edge of that cliff he'd still been trying to reach him, what an idiot – and he scrambles to regain concentration.

This is a special key, after all, and the manoeuvres of the Swarm depend upon its accuracy.

"No, I suppose not," says Sauron.

Then he leans in.

"Where do you think this is going to end for you?" he asks.

Maeglin feels like all the noises of the ship, all the humming and grinding of the machines, all of it has suddenly gone silent, like all the sound has been swallowed up by the darkness that's lingering just out of sight.

"The Lord of a vast tributary kingdom to Lord Melkor?" Sauron goes on. "Coffers overflowing with precious gems and the beautiful bride of your dreams?"

Maeglin doesn’t look at him.

"I don't dream about her anymore," he says.

Sauron laughs at him, and yet it is true.

There's only one thing he dreams about these days.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

…

IF YOU ARE LISTENING TO THIS PRE-RECORDED MESSAGE...

…

…

IT IS NOT BECAUSE I TRUST YOU...

…

…

WELL, SO MUCH FOR SENTIMENT...

…

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Maeglin knows he cannot avoid meeting with other Elves forever.

(Eöl doesn't count.)

Still, when Kasuelar sends that Priority Alpha communication to him in the middle of the night it comes as something of a surprise. He hadn't known Kasuelar to be capable of remembering the required passwords for their use.

"Hey, Princess Cousin-fucker, guess what!?"

… although, once Penlod's _History of Gondolin_ had appeared online, scanned in by someone in one of the Valar-allied nations of Men who'd gained access to a translation gifted to an official as part of a set, he'd certainly proven capable of remembering anything he thought worthy of taunting Maeglin with.

This is even more annoying than it would normally be, because Maeglin has been working on something extremely valuable to the war effort, and must extricate himself from the telescopic headgear he has utilised in order to answer the call.

"Kasuelar, if you've abused Priority protocol again just to irritate me I'm going to submit a requisition to have you delivered to me as the next weapons test subject for the Spider Silk program."

The same program he would really like to be getting back to, if the madman didn't mind.

But of course, this is the one time he has some actual news.

"Hah, fuck no, Princess – I just thought you'd want to know, since you love your family so much, I just caught me one of Lord Boss-man's big fishes! Fucking dancing on the spot he was, seriously!"

Maeglin stops so suddenly he almost fails to catch himself from turning around to look at Kasuelar on the view-screen.

There's a moment of silence after that, and then –

"You've captured a member Finwë's house. _You?_ "

"Fuck you, Meg, you're just jealous. But don't get too excited, because I'm afraid it wasn't your fucking slutty cousin – just your gay fucking uncle."

… _"Lómion?"_

_…_

_He can just about feel the impact of the blood that's coughed up onto his shoulder._

…

"My uncle," Maeglin repeats. The walls of the ship begin to shrink like he hasn't felt since Gondolin was crushed.

Then he remembers he has more than one of those.

"My uncle, Turgon?" he clarifies.

Kasuelar frowns. "Was he gay too? I'm talking about magic-carpet guy; the one with the talking raccoon."

Oh, _him_.

Of course, Kasuelar uses the word 'gay' to describe about fifty percent of whatever nonsense he's talking about on any given day, having the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old of his kind, but the part about the magic carpet and talking raccoon is something Maeglin only wishes he could say he doesn't understand.

History becomes legend, legend myth and myth eventually nothing in the world of Men, as old records burn or crumble, and those who might have read them crumble alongside. Maeglin can't even be sure that the legend of Princess Kaliana originally derived from garbled oral accounts of his oldest uncle's famous rescue of Maedhros from the cliffs of Thangorodrim, but it does involve Kaliana bringing a lute into the lair of an evil god to rescue her future husband from being chained to the castle wall via a bar through his wrist that eventually requires the amputation of his hand – though she reaches the cliff via magic flying carpet rather than giant eagle.

It was one of the movie versions that had added the talking raccoon sidekick. Maeglin doesn't dignify that gibberish with acknowledgement.

"Fingon then," he says.

Kasuelar shrugs. "Fin-one, Fin-two, all of the little Prince Finni-kins – one of those fuckers anyway."

"Though you'd forgive my scepticism at the news that _you'd_ captured either of them."

"Hey, jealousy is the green-eyed monster, you fucking loser," says Kasuelar. "The kind of thing that gets you thrown off cliffs. I captured Princess Gay-lord fair and square, and if his gay lover tries to come and get him I'll capture his fucking ass too, and you can all talk about being gay and fucking your cousins, although since you're, like, the oldest fucking virgin in the world there's not much input on your part – "

Maeglin ends the call.

A quick check of their digital bulletin board reveals that Kasuelar has, in fact, captured a prisoner now solidly identified as Fingon Fingolfinion, who has been taken to the hold of the _Annihilation_ for interrogation forthwith.

Maeglin would suggest they simply throw him into the same cell as Eöl, and wait for him to offer up any assistance he can to their cause in exchange for being let out again, but that would draw more attention than he'd like to himself in regards to this matter.

He knows Melkor after all, and Melkor would just relish the thought of ordering him to be the one to torture and interrogate his uncle, when he could actually be doing something useful.

He turns back to his work forthwith.

Winding the near-microscopic filament into perfection.

Just him and the tools – and the soulless Beetles by his side in case he needs anything.

…

Fingon is nothing to him, after all. They've never even met. There's no reason to love nor hate the Elf, no reason to pay attention to this at all except to perhaps consider what could be done to their security to pre-emptively cut off any daring rescues, because it's almost a given that one of those is right around the corner.

…

He sits staring through the scope at the silvery thread, hands perfectly still on the controls.

No one had ever been going to have come to rescue _him_ from Melkor when they'd caught him. He'd known that as soon as it had happened.

…

But that's no reason to…

…

It doesn't mean anything, of course.

He sits perfectly still, and waits to begin working again.

…

He waits for a long time.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

_"I do want you to know," he tells Turgon, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. "That even when I disagreed with your policies, I always knew you'd never intend harm to me."_

_Turgon cocks his head, frowning. Lómion takes a deep breath._

_"… and I do love you, Uncle."_

_There's a moment of true peace between them there, when he can almost feel the affection in Turgon beginning to well up. Yet he cannot afford to spare any more time to hear a reply, and probably could not have born the hearing of it anyway._

_So the hand he is trailing down Turgon's upper arm he tightens, and as Turgon is suddenly distracted by the first roar of the Balrog that is approaching the city, he pulls him close and thrusts the short sword in his other hand through his chest._

_The body jerks abruptly with a gasp – comprehending on the one level but not yet understanding what has happened, for it must seem just that impossible that it has. Lómion releases his grip on Turgon's sleeve to shift his other arm around his uncle's back, beneath the point of the blade that protrudes behind his heart so he can hold both arms in place as he embraces him._

_He pulls the sword out again a moment later. It's sharp enough that it shouldn't have hurt too much, and Lómion would know, for Lómion made it with his own hands, with knowledge from both his father and the Khazad, and from the smiths of Gondolin as well. He hears the blood drip from it to the floor, and in his arms the king shudders once, and then again, and when his mouth opens Lómion feels more blood drip onto his shoulder._

_"Lo… Lómion?"_

_There is only confusion in his uncle's voice, not yet betrayal. It has happened too fast for him to understand yet, as was intended. He hopes death too comes so soon._

_"Shh," Lómion tells Turgon. "It's all right. Everything's fine."_

_His head turns to speak more softly in the other's ear._

_"I'm just sending you home."_

You've never wanted to be here anyway _, he thinks._

_Turgon's body jerks one more time, and blood spurts out from his mouth again with a weak cough. After that he can no longer hold himself up and sags against Lómion's chest as he lowers him gently to the floor._

_Lómion does not cry._

_He barely feels a thing._

_He removes  the king's body to the inner chamber and covers the blood on the floor with a rug in case anyone comes looking while the city still stands. When he leaves, he orders the people to their positions with assurances that those orders came directly from the King, and they trust him. If they ask where their king is, he lies, and they trust him._

_No one, to his knowledge, ever finds out that Turgon died before the siege had even really started. The tower was one of the first places to collapse, so he hadn't needed to keep up his charade for long. He supposes Turgon would have told them himself once he was rehoused, of course, and tries not to imagine how he'd sound in saying it, but that doesn't matter._

_He just hadn't wanted Turgon to know what was coming, that was all._

_It would have felt too much like a betrayal._

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

A video circulates the net soon. A video made by Maedhros Fëanorion and whatever human helpers are holding the camera, swearing an Oath to retrieve Fingon from the _Annihilation_.

Yes. _That_ kind of oath.

Maeglin advises Melkor to kill his uncle immediately and mount his head upon the carrier in answer to the threat, but Melkor wants to allow Maedhros to make the attempt, to lure him into his clutches again.

Maeglin does not tell him that through re-using footage they could make Maedhros believe Fingon was still alive after they'd already killed him, and see the devastation wrought on the other Elf when he makes his desperate attempt only to find out he'd failed before he'd even begun.

And he's glad no one else thinks of it either.

 

 

*~*~*


	3. Midday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three, quite a bit longer than the first two, but I wasn't paying attention to such things when writing this and there wasn't really a better way to break it up while keeping the flow of the story. I think the last chapter will be longer than this anyway, I'm aiming for about seven.
> 
> Also updated the character tags, since I forgot there was an Aredhel flashback.
> 
> NB: May be some formatting errors in this chapter. I noticed a couple as soon as I posted since they were right at the beginning and fixed them, but others may lurk within...

 

 

*~*~*

_"...And when I was growing up I had three brothers to play with me; Findekano, Turukano, and… and my younger brother, Arakano."_

_"Did he die?"_

_…_

_"What?!"_

_"The younger one. Arakano. He died, didn't he?"_

_…_

_"Did… did your father tell you that?"_

_"Mm-mm. Your eyes told me."_

_"Oh. Yes, he was killed by Morgoth's creatures when we first came to this land."_

_"Were you very sad?"_

_"Yes. Yes, we were all very sad. Your grandfather almost died, he was so sad."_

_"Is he sad that he doesn't see you anymore then? Can we see him?!"_

_"Shh, shh, shh. Not so loud. No, I don't think we will see your grandfather. I don't know if he's sad he doesn't see me – or your Uncle Turukano, who is called 'Turgon' in your father's language. I suppose… I suppose so."_

_"Where is Uncle Turukano?"_

_"In a hidden city. Lord Ulmo showed him in a dream where to build it, so he left there, and I decided to go with him."_

_"Why did you come here then?"_

_…_

_…_

_"Didn't my other uncle come with you?"_

_"Findekano? No. No, he didn't come with us."_

_"Why?"_

_"Well… your uncles were having an argument about the reasons we'd decided to come to this land, and… and some things that had happened. I'll tell you about it when you're older."_

_"Why?"_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_"Nana, can I have brothers too?"_

_"Ha-ha. Oh, my darling, I think not. You must be very strong to make a child, and I am not. I thought I was once, but… well in the end, there will only ever be you. But that's all right, for I love you as much as I would a dozen children."_

_"But what if_ I _went away?"_

_"... What?"_

_"What if I went away, like you and Uncle Turukano did, or if the orcs killed me like Uncle Arakano. Wouldn't you be sad?"_

_"… yes. Yes, I would be very sad."_

_"Would you cry?"_

_"Yes. Lo – my son, I would cry. In fact, if you died I do not think I would survive."_

_…_

_"That's bad though."_

_"Hmm?"_

_"It will be bad if you die, Nana. I think you should try to be stronger, like my grandfather. Don't die because of me – bad things will happen."_

_"Bad things?"_

_"Mm."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_…_

_"I don't know. But I feel in my heart that bad things will happen if you die."_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_"Tell me more about the hidden city, Amme?"_

_…_

_"Tsk, tsk. What are you two whispering about?"_

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

"You seem somehow even gloomier than usual, my son," Eöl tells him as he's changing floggers next time they're scheduled a session.

"We've captured one of my princely Uncles," he says without emotion.

Eöl raises his eyebrows. "Oh? Which one?"

"Fingon."

"Oh, you mean the gay one."

Maeglin shoots him a bitter look. "You've been talking to Kasuelar."

The other Elf just laughs until Maeglin shuts him up with a blow to the sternum. He's not quite sure why the grim and volatile father he remembers from childhood has developed the black sense of humour over the years, turning him into this giggling idiot. True, there's always been the humour of a cat playing with mice about him, and for Aredhel he'd certainly made vicious mockery of her heritage now and then, but maybe the wretch landed on his head when Turgon dropped him and this is the result.

He hates both versions about the same, he thinks.

"What can I say?" Eöl asks him, choking. "He's a jolly soul – visits every now and then. I think he might have feelings for you actually, though I cannot say what kind. He is inordinately preoccupied with your love-life, or lack thereof."

This time Maeglin just backhands him.

"Shut up!" he spits.

"As you command," Eöl mocks.

"I mean it, _thrall_ ," Maeglin sneers. "If the next words out of your mouth aren't an expression of your sworn allegiance and undying devotion to Lord Melkor, I don't want to hear them."

Eöl snorts, probably thinking _as if that would ever happen_ , and Maeglin privately agrees. As if anyone has ever made his father live in a way he didn't want to. This is the Elf who would have murdered his only child first, after all – an act unthinkable to probably ninety-nine percent of all Elves, at a conservative estimate.

Still, Maeglin does find these little sessions cathartic usually, and his master has ordered him to make the attempt. He wonders if that old prophecy about Anglachel being the sword that would kill him has reached Melkor's ears, though Maeglin has never found a source for that dubious story, nor thought of any way it could be possible.

There are other reasons he wonders about that sword sometimes though. And it may have been but an embellishment for the oh-so sad tale of Turin Turambar, but the idea that one of his father's swords talked…

… as though it had had a will of its own…

Well. It bears certain unfortunate implications.

"We all have to learn to listen when we don't want to, _ion nin_ ," Eöl says, still mocking him. "Though why you'd learn that now when you haven't in the last thirty-five thousand years I don't know. You never listened to me, you or your mother."

Maeglin punches him in the face.

"I said shut up!" he spits. "Why _would_ we have listened to anything you said? A maniac who keeps his wife and child locked up in a shack in the woods! Who only stopped whining about how much he hated the Noldor for slaying his kin to complain about how much he hates his kin and then marry a Noldor maid!"

"It was hardly a _shack_ ," Eöl wheezes, and Maeglin doesn't know why he's surprised that's the part Eöl takes umbrage with first. "And it's not like you were locked in the whole time. I wouldn't have had to do it at all if you would have just listened to me, but that wretched harpy kept running off into the woods, right up until she was pregnant with you, and told you all those foolish stories besides. It wasn't safe for either of you outside my halls."

Indeed, Eöl's dwelling had been more a small castle than a mere shack in the woods, and bigger than it had appeared with the underground complex beneath – Dwarf-built.

Sturdy chambers with sturdy cells. A fine prison – if not the finest Maeglin had ever known.

_…_

_A shiver along the back of his neck. Aredhel doesn't seem to notice, and he tugs insistently on her sleeve four times before the door opens but by then it's too late – the creak of the hinges is too slow, and He's been standing outside for long enough to hear._

_"… if you are ever in trouble, then you must go to them – your amme's family, along the paths I've said. They will never turn you away…"_

_"Oh?"_

He _steps in through the doorway. The child jumps to his feet, trembles at his mother's side and can't decide whether to throw himself in front of or behind her – which move is more likely to set his father off._

_Though now it may be too late either way. Her hand grips his tightly, pulls him towards her, yet she does not shrink back but sits up tall and straight, like a daughter of kings._

_The chains shackled to her wrists clink with the movement._

_"You're back," she says dully._

_"What, did you think I'd leave you long enough for the brat to learn how to pick locks? Death could not keep me away."_

_The child's mother says nothing. The child leans further into her, and draws Eöl's attention._

_"You stole the key to come in here, I see. Stupid boy. Your mother was only in here until she'd learned her lesson, and now I have to teach you too."_

_He uses 'naneth' when the child's mother prefers 'amme', but the child knows well enough not to protest, because nothing sets his father off as does the use of the kinslayer words. Instead his fists clench and he cries out,_

_"That's not fair! And anyway, you've already taught that lesson, to me and my mother, and I haven't forgotten it so you don't need to do it again!"_

_"Then why have you disobeyed me?"_

_"Because you locked my mother in here when she hadn't done anything wrong!"_

_"She was trying to leave us – "_

_"She was not!" the child shouts angrily. "You are lying! She just got lost on her way back from the stream again, and you locked her in here because you wanted to!"_

_The child sincerely believes this is the case now, though in later years he'll wonder, but it is undeniable that Aredhel gets lost even on short journeys sometimes. If Eöl would only tell the trees not to trick her so often… but sometimes he likes it when she's lost, and he has to rescue her._

_"That's enough!" Eöl snaps, and stalks forward without another word._

_The child tries to run, and his mother to hold her husband back, but he's so quick, and has so many strange devices… a steel collar on a chain it seems impossible he could have hidden appears from nowhere, thrown with deadly accuracy and closing around the child's neck with a click._

_Aredhel's hands grip Eöl's, trying to yank the chain out of his grasp, but he throws her off once – not too harshly, he does not_ beat _them ever, not really – and then he does something – the child does not see, he should have been paying better attention, he might have stopped it the next time! There's another click somewhere in the floor and the chains around his mother's wrists pull her down, sinking into hidden compartments in the floor link by link until they're so short she cannot stand up, let alone move from that spot. She cries out to no avail._

_Eöl pulls his makeshift leash and the child stumbles towards him. He regains his balance for only a moment and pulls back with his hands around the chain – so cold! He wasn't expecting it to be so cold! – but Eöl pulls again and the child literally slides along the floorboards on his heels for half a second before the fully grown Elf grabs him and tucks him under his arm._

_"No!" Aredhel shouts at him, pulling frantically on the chains. "No, don't you dare hurt him, you fiend – don't you dare!"_

_Eöl doesn't look at her at all as he sweeps out of the room, the child squirming and kicking in his grasp all the time, but he throws back over his shoulder –_

_"You should have thought of that before you started plotting with the little rat!"_

_"Eöl, stop! Eöl!"_

_He slams the door shut and three bolts lock into place, but the child doesn't cry for his mother – he knows well enough it gets him nowhere._

_Instead he continues to see whether he is strong enough yet that he'll escape Eöl's grasp before they reach one of the other cells._

_Not yet, it seems._

_Not_ yet _._

_Down they go. Down further and further into the darkness, with only a stone that glows a little like the moon to light their way. The echo of the shaking chain carries far and wide into the tunnels, until suddenly, so suddenly it's almost unbelievable, the child is being thrown into another room._

_His father attaches the other end of the chain to the wall and locks it, deftly avoiding the angry swipes the child takes at him as he passes._

_There's absolutely nothing in the room but a chamber pot, and once the door closes the child will have to find it by memory and touch alone, but that is delayed a while yet because Eöl steps away and then back in a way he wasn't expecting, ending up behind him._

_With one arm he gathers the child's smaller arms behind his back and holds them there. With the other hand he gathers up the child's hair and tightens his fist around it, making it too painful for the child to move much._

_The child leans back against Eöl, still squirming but no longer with any urgency._

_It's not that he feels he's in danger or anything. Not really. (Not_ yet _). It is only his father after all._

_He just doesn't like this._

_"Listen to me, ion nin," Eöl tells him, lips blowing softly against his ear. "Listen to me and listen well. You cannot leave this place. If you ever tried to leave me, you or your mother, I would come after you. I would hunt you down. I would hunt you down and bring you back and then I'd never let you take these chains off – never! You belong to me, both of you! To me, and me alone!"_

_The child cannot think of a counter-argument. He whimpers softly and the arms around him tighten._

_"You'll never leave me. Never."_

_And then…_

_…_

_… then the fight just leaves him._

_And Eöl feels it, and the child feels his smile. He kisses his forehead tenderly._

_"Tonight you spend here, re-learning that lesson. Tomorrow you'll work with me in the forge."_

_…_

_Maeglin looks back on that day with embarrassment that such a small thing had made him happy enough to sit in a pitch-black cell with a collar and chain around his neck like a dog and not complain in the slightest._

_It hadn't been long after that he'd finally been named. Though the threat that had preceded that had been much more grave._

_…_

_…_

_"One of these days I'm going to kill you. Do you hear me, ion nin? If you leave this place, leave my protection, then I swear to the Valar I'll kill you."_

_His arms are tight – so tight they hurt. So tight he thinks he'll never break away…_

_…_

_And he begins to understand that the fact that Eöl is his father actually makes him_ more _likely to torment him. It's a while longer before he realises that's not normal._

_…_

_…_

_"I hate to bring this up after everything that's happened but the law is the law. Attempting to leave the city without permission bears the penalty of death."_

…

His fists clench harder than before.

"Because it was so safe inside your walls – _chained_ to your walls, half the time."

Eöl rolls his eyes. "Must you only remember the bad times?" he asks. Since it's not an entirely serious question, Maeglin decides that with so much cheek to spare he can stand another blow to the face. Though admittedly 'half' had been an exaggeration.

"Enough." He rubs now-sore knuckles. "I'm going back to re-calibrate the Swarm manoeuvres unless you have something actually useful to add – such as a promise of subjugation to my master, though how much use that will be for us I don't know. I've already given him all your secrets."

There's a glint in Eöl's eye when he says that, which tells Maeglin if his father's hands had been free he would have put them around his neck for that one.

"You still assume you had all my secrets to give," he replies coolly.

In truth, he doesn't. When he and Aredhel had left his halls it had _not_ been because Eöl or even the Dwarves had had nothing left to teach him, only that excuse made it seem so much less awful than the real reason.

Plus, he doesn't doubt that Eöl has been paying just as much attention as he has all these millennia. And he still doesn't know what his father had been working on in the few years before they'd captured him…

Eöl brightens suddenly.

"Maybe you should put me in with your uncle and see if I don't get on better with him than I did with the other one?" He smirks. "He might open up his heart and tell me everything, and I can join the super-best-friends team."

Well, there's an image.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Maeglin says dryly on his way out. "If one of you doesn't kin-slay the other you might start plotting, and then we'd have to build a whole new mechanism to shorten your chains."

He'll come back and torture the other Elf more later. They have a whole new Age ahead of them to learn new things.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

"So let me get this straight," Kasuelar is saying.

(it doesn’t really matter when or where, only that given it's a place and time that Kasuelar is, makes it a place and time Maeglin would wish he weren't.)

"You were literally called Lord of the _Mole,_ from the House of the _Mole_ , and your symbol was a mole… and they were all totally fucking surprised when you turned out to be, you know… a mole?"

_Blessed Elbereth…_

"General, do you know _when_ the word 'mole' first became a synonym for infiltrator?"

Kasuelar gets a look like he understands, pointing at him with a grin.

"Ah, so you were the fucking Mole who started the whole thing, huh? There's a fucking legacy for you, am I right?!"

"It was coined twenty-three hundred years ago when the Uliaachrar Chancellor of the Exchequer Mazrolitz Fenn Forzroth turned out to have been working for the Blue Gulls for decades at the end of the Sixth Age and has nothing to do with me whatsoever. They certainly weren't using it in the First Age, when all it did was refer to the fact that I spent a lot of time underground, mining."

"Eh, you're no fucking fun. You don’t even put a fucking little bit of effort into this shit, man – it's like, 'hey Princess, you spend enough time underground to be a mole!' and you're like – " He claps his hands once, "Eureka! I shall call myself… 'the Mole'! Then when someone called your robots 'creepy as beetles' you were just like 'Beetles, yeah, sure – let's go with it!'"

"I suppose you think I should have hired a marketing team to decide upon these things?"

Kasuelar rolls his eyes dramatically. "I'm just saying, man – you could at least call your fucking ship something other than 'Prototype Q-Series 31 A-B-C-D-E-F-G'."

It's actually called 'Q3 Series Prototype 31-B Alpha', but close enough.

"Fuck, I'm sure you can think of something suitably fucking emo, like 'Blood Shadow of Death', or 'Total Eclipse of my Soul'."

" 'Eclipse' it is then," says Maeglin emotionlessly, just to be annoying.

Kasuelar snorts.

"Still, those Gondolin fuckers were a bunch of morons. I mean, even I just have to look at you to know you're trouble; you dress like a fucking emo and no one can tell if you're a boy or a girl. Bet you sat in your room listening to metal whenever you weren't underground – and probably kept a good few eye-makeup salesmen in business for a thousand years or so."

He makes a motion like he's writing in a book; his voice becoming high-pitched and whiny.

" 'Dear diary. My life is a lie. Today my Uncle Torgo – or whatever his fucking name is – went down to the country club and said I had to come along and play fucking golf out in the sun. Fucking golf, diary, motherfucker doesn't understand me at all. I think I'm going to kill him and all these other preps, or maybe just listen to some more TID, depends on whether my next wrist-slitting attempt gets interrupted'."

Before Maeglin can point out that his time in Gondolin took place before 'metal' music, country clubs, golf, or any band that Kasuelar's ever heard of – which would have been a long wait since Maeglin is resolutely ignoring the idiot – Sauron cuts in to their conversation with a confused (and bored),

"TID?"

Maeglin rubs a suddenly sore brow. Kasuelar helpfully explains.

"Yeah, _'Tender In the Dark'_ – it's what all the mopey bastards like Princess here used to listen to back in ye old days. I think they even had a track called _'Incest'_ actually: bet that one was a favourite."

It was, in fact, not. Although Maeglin does know what he's talking about, to his eternal chagrin – 'ye old days' of sixty-five years ago, indeed.

And then comes that moment straight out of the nightmare of the teenager Kasuelar imagines him to be.

"Perhaps Lómion would grace us with it now, then," Melkor announces to the dining room. "Or a song of some kind either way."

There are other people in the room. Others probably doing little more than praying they survive the encounter as they force food down their throats little by little. One of the cabinet ministers has already had to be excused so he can throw up – resulting in a number of dubious looks at the food from other diners wondering if Melkor hasn't decided to just poison them all for failing to deliver him the world on a silver platter by now.

Each and every one of them, Maeglin surmises, can feel that something bad might be about to happen.

He takes a long gulp of wine.

"I don't sing, Master."

Melkor laughs, as much as from the fact he's found something he can torment someone with as the seemingly false statement – false, for do not all Elves sing?

Yet, Maeglin cannot recall doing so.

Not once.

Not in about thirty-five thousand years.

"Of course you do, Lómion – and even the least skilled of your people outstrips the most talented of Men with their voices." (not true, even in Maeglin's opinion, but who cares?) "Come, for few I deem have heard a wider selection of songs than thee."

Maeglin would like to say he was there to do important work for Melkor, not as entertainment, but he knows how well the Dark Lord would receive that without even so much as glancing at those awful yellow eyes. They're all there for his entertainment.

Without even so much as a token protest, he'll grit his teeth and bear it.

"Oh, are we going to hear something from the old days about trees and stars and shit?" asks Kasuelar, and sometimes Maeglin wishes he too could be so much of a psychopath and have no regard for his own safety, and that the last vestiges of his fear would disappear.

He feels those vestiges now.

"I don't think the popular tunes of Gondolin are appropriate for this gathering," he says. "And our enemy plays enough of them these days that you'll probably hear them by osmosis anyway."

"Then perhaps you'll give us something my Lord and I missed, during our little holiday," says Sauron.

He too is delighted that Maeglin has been made uncomfortable, but there's something else that Maeglin sees, behind those cat-like black slit pupils within their glowing flames.

It's more than sadism. Sauron actually wants to hear a song.

And he realises… there can be no _sound_ in the Void.

And he almost, almost feels that sympathetic twinge again.

More than that though, he has no choice, so he wracks his mind for something he isn't embarrassed to know off by heart and isn't a love song, which adds up to few enough, and nothing by _TID_ for sure. He puts the glass back on the table, a sharp noise in a suddenly silent, airless room. He wishes their master wasn't still so attached to open flames when much more efficient lighting has been used for millennia.

He clears his throat.

" _Once in the sky,_  
when night had come  
It caught my eye;  
The Midnight Sun."

It's a slow tune. The product of a semi-famous musician from four hundred years earlier. Maeglin reproduces it passably, he supposes, even without the backing music.

" _A tinted haze,_  
it settled low;  
The endless days  
Still had far to go.

 _And from that light,_  
on that far shore;  
I felt the bite  
That had been the thaw

 _To the sea strand_  
I turned at last.  
But on the sand,  
No shadow cast.

 _A child's eye_  
then gave me stare;  
She asked if I  
was even there.

 _My voice was caught._  
And no sound came;  
Though – "

"STOP!"

Melkor's sudden bellow of rage sticks the next lyric in Maeglin's throat so that for a moment he cannot breathe – and he should have been watching the Ainur's face, should not have let himself be so intimidated or he would have realised that the King of the World was _not_ enjoying his performance.

He breathes again after a while but is still there, petrified, and in his mind the memory of the two too-bright lights gleaming above the creature's brow like another pair of mercilessly watching eyes, bearing down on him while he'd still told himself he had to resist a while longer… and at the same time a vision, a glimpse of what he thinks at first is snow but then realises a flurry of broken glass, flying through the air all around him like a blizzard – not so far away now.

Not so far that he can't hear the echo of the break coming back at him like waves from a time yet to come.

Someone in the room fails to hold back a sob. It's not Maeglin, but none of the Men present are even old enough to have children by Elven standards (though some are grandfathers) – how, he wonders, can they be prepared to dine with _Morgoth_!?

The anger of their King is terrible, he sees it in that single word, and anger he has not seen before, a boiling, writhing mass of grasping arms that shakes the entire _Annihilation_ beneath them. Glasses break, plates break, cutlery bends of its own accord and the fake, plastic flowers in the centre of the table wither as though they were real.

…

But after an Age of waiting the only doom Melkor pronounces today is:

"You sound too much like _her_. I'd forgotten you were kin to her as well."

…

It takes Maeglin a while to realise who his master means when he says 'her', which goes to show how much of the Age of his first life he just doesn't think about anymore.

He'd seen and heard Luthien only once while living in Nan Elmoth, accompanying her father on a cursory visit so long ago he had not yet even been Maeglin –

(and he remembers the look on her face when she'd heard that, the look that had scared him, made him determined to make Eöl give him a name much sooner, for she had intended his father ill in that moment and in that moment he'd known she'd had the power to carry it out)

 – yet if he sounds like her he supposes he has missed his calling as a singer.

Of course, he's missed a lot of things over the years, and one more makes little difference.

"Yeah, that one was a real fucking downer anyway," Kasuelar says dismissively, breaking the tension. "Next time do the one – what was it they were playing on the fucking radio the other day? 'Tra la la lalley, down in the valley'? That was a fucking awesome song – you should sing that one."

At least, unlike some people, he isn't missing an ounce of taste.

Even the nearest Beetle turns its head to stare at Kasuelar when they hear of what he considers 'fucking awesome'. Although, they're not supposed to do that…

Out of the corner of Maeglin's eye, he notices that Sauron looks disappointed.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

With Fingon Fingolfinion captured, the excursions into Arda by the Valinorian forces become more bold, and Maeglin faces the prospect of running into a member of his mother's family becoming more and more likely.

The first time this actually happens isn't so bad though.

It's only Galadriel.

... Bad meaning the feeling that twists his insides, the rage and loneliness wrapped around strands of nothingness – rather than tactically speaking, for the power of the remade Nenya is fierce indeed.

There are now fourteen Elven Rings of Power; forged, so Maeglin understands, by a rehoused Celebrimbor under the direction of Aule long before the destruction of the Moon – with a further fourteen for the now rehoused dwarves; the original seven fathers and seven more their Maker deemed worthy of the honour.

One of them is fighting even now beside the daughter of Finarfin.

"There are too many of these blasted insects, my Lady!" the Dwarf cries.

Their rings protect them from the Beetles' artillery – which is annoying, since Maeglin hasn't seen enough of them to be able to effectively devise a counter-strategy to their protection – but Maeglin has made the Beetles to move so quickly that only wide-bursts of power can make a dent in their numbers on Galadriel's part, while the Dwarf is forced to cut them apart one by one with his axe.

A very fine axe, upon which three shimmering golden hairs twine.

Neither Galadriel nor her companion know Maeglin was watching the day those hairs were gifted, and he knows well enough of Gimli, son of Gloin, Elf-friend. It's actually nostalgic to see him, or any of his people for that matter, in action again.

And a pity really, that Maeglin will have to kill them both.

He realises with some consternation that his is the closest of the nerve-ships to their location, and as it doesn't pay to indicate which one of these ships is the important one, even with the failsafes that switch central control over in the event of an emergency, he takes the risk and goes in against them alone, as any of the other ships would have.

This proves to be a mistake, however, because a portal opens up without warning between them – confounded Valar must have found a quicker way to create these doors! – and a swan-like boat swoops out with silver sails. Maeglin must reverse thrust sharply to avoid crashing into it – it may be made of wood, but it is also made of magic – and therefore the laser cannons that had been pointed at Lady and Dwarf miss their shot.

Then some enterprising Man sees their chance, or perhaps it was planned this way, and another blast hits his main engine from a craft that should have been taken care of by the Beetles, except they'd been preoccupied by the precision manoeuvres and lost their chance.

Maeglin has to eject the power core to stop the ship from blowing up, and finds that with the additional damage he'll barely be able to effect a crash landing. He decides his best chance of escape is to eject manually and have the Beetles carry him back to the nearest nerve ship to re-assume control of the Swarm.

This is nerve-wracking, because it puts him in a position of freefall from a height of over five thousand metres, and even though it is _stupid_ he finds, given his experiences, he is not entirely comfortable with heights.

Less comfortable still is the position he finds himself in when the Beetle that comes to his left side has half its body blown away and the resulting force sends him and the remaining Beetle on his right whirling off course. A piece of shrapnel tears a rent in even his hand-crafted armour, and then the flesh of his arm. The first blood he's shed since his resurrection. That same pilot again, he thinks – the cretin.

Still, the pain is hardly noticeable.

They have no choice but to land upon the deck of the ship that pushed his _Eclipse_ off its flight path, the same one Galadriel and Gimli have now alighted to, and that's when Maeglin sees who's captaining it –

"Artanis, watch out!"

"Macalaurë, how did you – !?"

– and at the same time also, that Gimli, son of Gloin, notices something Maeglin wishes he hadn't.

"Well now. Granted I've not the eyes of Elves, but I don't believe I've ever seen one of Morgoth's metal soldiers bleed before!"

He's had to slice another one of 'Morgoth's metal soldiers' in twain as he makes the observation; the Beetles have noticed their creator's predicament, and within a certain radius they will come to his aid, but without, the manoeuvres take precedence.

Another three of them are swept aside with the power of Nenya.

"Those soldiers have a creator of flesh and blood," Galadriel calls back, "Quickly, we must try to take him alive!"

 _That_ is not going to happen.

Maeglin draws his side-arm and puts a few bullets in Galadriel's direction, but the Dwarf sweeps them aside with his axe and one of them grazes Maeglin's helmet on ricochet. _His_ skills certainly have not diminished for all he's been resting in the Halls of Aule for twenty-five thousand years. Maeglin suppresses a cry of pain to a hiss.

"How alive exactly do we need the scum to be?" the Dwarf asks.

Galadriel just gives him a fond look before trying to sweep Maeglin into the side of the boat with a directed wave of water from Nenya. However, likely assuming him to be a Man, she has not accounted for Maeglin's agility, and he leaps aside from the water in three bounds, followed one after the other until he lands close enough to one of Maglor's crew that Galadriel does not risk the use of her power.

For all the good it does that particular Elf, when a Beetle shoots him in the throat a moment later.

Gimli dispatches the offending robot with a throwing hatchet, while Maeglin stays on the move trying to think of a plan of escape. He is not ill-suited to close combat, but it is not his strong suit either.

Then the Dwarf shouts angrily, in Khuzdul, "May you meet your end upon the blades of those you've wronged!" in reference to the dead Elf on the deck behind him, if Maeglin remembers his Khuzdul aright.

And assuming that he does, he takes the opportunity his sharp eyes have sunk their own blades in to call back in the same language –

"He'd have to forge a better blade first, Lock-Bearer."

As he'd hoped, this stuns both Gimli and Galadriel for the crucial seconds needed for him to get to the side of the hull and make his exit. Unfortunately, Maglor doesn't seem to recognise the use of the Dwarven tongue, or the significance of their target's use of it, and takes his own opportunity to aim a blow to Maeglin's head.

His sword is amazingly constructed, Maeglin notes, but he underestimates the even better construction of Maeglin's armour – which is fortunate, because with the bullet having struck it already it's weak enough to crack with the force of the blow, and while Maeglin reels and waves his pistol around defensively, blocking Maglor's thrusts, a piece of it crumbles.

Enough of a piece that one of Maeglin's ear-points is exposed; Gimli gasps and exclaims, "An Elf!"

The ranks of the nearby Beetles decimated, everything goes very quiet on the ship.

Maeglin finds the pain from the wounds less noticeable than a sudden nausea that spreads through his head; a dizziness, that has him stumble back. He grabs for the rest of the helm too late, and the back crumbles, falling like leaves to the deck so that he's left there with just the faceplate held up to hide his eyes.

He soon determines he'll need both his hands, and discards the secret of his identity with an annoyed click of the tongue.

It's not like it matters, if they know, but…

"You!" Maglor cries softly.

Maeglin's eyes narrow. He has seen the second son of Fëanor before. Watching the still-living as he had been all that time, he'd seen him while the other Elf had still been alive.

It had not been until despair had claimed his spirit that Maglor had seen him in turn, both of them unhoused and wandering.

For it had been rare enough that any two spirits should see each other during that long wait, but for whatever reason (and he suspected common interest in certain members of the living more than their familial ties) Maeglin had run into his mother's cousin more often than most; lips moving in a song that no longer had a sound – purposeless.

Pathetic.

They'd never spoken. He'd wondered if Maglor might not have guessed his identity from his resemblance to his mother, but if he ever had then he's now forgotten he'd done so, for there is no further recognition displayed before him. Spirits didn't generally converse, fixated as they were on their own burdens. Too fixated to pass on.

Except Eöl, of course, who had just loved taunting him.

"Who is he?" asks Gimli. Maeglin glances around for an exit but the Swarm has shifted away from the boat – damn it!

"I… I do not know," says Maglor, confirming Maeglin's suspicions. "But he was an unhoused spirit as I was before the re-embodiment…"

He stares at Maeglin in horror – looks betrayed already, which is unusually prescient, for a Fëanorian.

"You… you are the master of these wretched things!?"

Maeglin could try raising his weapon again… but he is outnumbered sorely and couldn't contend with Galadriel, Gimli, or probably Maglor either on an individual basis anyway. His fist twitches nervously around the pistol. His options are limited.

"Lord Melkor is their Master," he mutters. "I just made them."

"And is he your master too?" asks Gimli, gruff between his contempt and his disbelief. "You, an Elf – a child of the Light!?"

That one's almost worthy of a laugh. He supposes the noise he makes before his reply could be called one.

"Well, he hasn't given me a salary for my work, so I suppose 'Master' is the correct term."

All the Elves on the ship are equally horrified, and this almost makes the disastrous episode worth it, because Maeglin relishes their horror.

And then Galadriel steps forward with a look of impressive gravity, even by her standards. It's heavy enough that he flinches back, and pretends the move was to see how the Elves surrounding him would react.

"Oh, you spiteful, miserable soul," she says; disappointed, disgusted, and clearly knowing exactly who he is. "If you were not the spitting image of your mother, I would not believe for a moment that you could be of our House."

She leaves a beat.

"… Maeglin Lómion."

The name is more of an accusation than a way of telling her companions who he is. One of the Elves loosens his grip on his sword in shock, but tightens it again before Maeglin can do more than catch the movement out of the corner of his eye. Only Gimli is not disturbed, and probably would yet have no reason to recognise his name.

However, Maeglin can also say names dramatically, and he responds, with all due mockery, "Mm, apart from me our House is such a wealth of good characters, isn't it, Nerwen Artanis?"

He looks pointedly at Maglor.

And Maglor flinches. It seems, shock of shocks, that the twelve years that have passed between today and the destruction of the Moon has not been enough time to bring his mother's cousin to terms with three kinslayings and thirty thousand plus years of wandering around moping.

"You know who I am," Maglor observes, swallowing. "You've known all along."

Maeglin wonders then, what had gone through the minstrel's mind all those times they caught glimpses of each other through the Ages. What notions he is having to reassess now.

"I've been watching carefully, for a long time," he says coldly.

"Waiting for the day you could sell what knowledge you had gained of the learning of Men to Morgoth," Galadriel finishes. "I cannot fathom why you do not look the part of the orc you are."

"Don't sell me short, Lady, no Man created my Swarm," he jerks his head towards the buzzing things, still firing above them to keep the jets back.

Terrovar jets, he notices for the first time. Reinforcements from the region that encompasses that which was once known as Dale. That means there may be Elves flying some of those planes; Thranduil's people – the ones who never left.

Maybe even Thranduil's son – for that had been one of those myths, before it had been forgotten entirely. That he'd left these shores with the same Dwarf about to raise his axe again before Maeglin now.

One of the planes goes down a moment later, in a haze of smoke and fire.

"Do you really have time to be standing around here talking to me, though?" he asks, and locks eyes with the Dwarf. "That could have been a friend of yours just now."

Gimli's eyes go wide, but Galadriel intervenes – her voice no longer repressing her anger as it did before.

"Don't listen to him, Gimli, his words are poison! He was known for it in his previous life – the ill counsels he spewed unto my cousin, even before his treachery!"

She points Nenya at him. He knows she's said they should take him alive, so he doesn't move yet, but he's very aware that she could kill him, right that moment. Her words certainly sound as though she could.

"Know this, son of Eöl: I still can see a great many things to come, and I see a greater darkness than any here have ever known awaiting you. A darkness that eats. A darkness that never stops. You walk the path towards this Doom with obstinacy, a black hole you are already lost within. It sits behind you like a shadow with open jaws."

 _Tell me something I don't know_ , thinks Maeglin.

"Eternal darkness," he says dismissively. "What would that matter to me? I am a Dark Elf, am I not? I am not afraid of the dark."

After a calculated pause he shrugs.

"But whatever – I certainly have better things to do than to stand around talking to three idiots, so if you're going to kill me, do – but since we are family," he snorts, "And since I have always respected the Khazad, I will give you this warning: the Beetles have contingency plans set into their core programming in the event of my death."

He pauses again.

"But if you are curious to know what they are…"

It works.

His warning gives them all a hesitation, and in that hesitation he sees his chance –

Or would have. But this little chat has distracted all of them from the missile that's about to crash into the side of the ship, and it seems the Teleri who built this ship have not yet invented proximity alarms.

Maeglin notices it just in time and makes a dash for the side, and his enemies follow his gaze quick enough that they in turn are more distracted by the danger than by his escape attempt.

There's a tremendous explosion.

Maeglin is Falling.

…

Falling…

…

Falling.

…

…

What a waste. He would have at least liked the chance to have said something like: "Tell my cousin we'll see each other soon."

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

_He sees Maglor Fëanorion for the first time at the Havens of Sirion._

_("Managed to keep from kinslaying for almost a whole generation," Eöl observes snidely – as if he has room to criticise._

_When it's over and the bodies are piled high and smouldering Maeglin thinks perhaps even Eöl does have some room to criticise)._

_He sees him showing Eärendil's brats how to properly hold their swords, resents the way the forest of their mother's people dies back from their hearts more and more with every passing day, while Nan Elmoth's branches still refused to budge from his, and cannot make himself watch them anymore._

_He sees Maglor after the War of Wrath, stumbling down towards the shore sobbing, the Silmaril shining through his blistered fingers. He doesn't stay to watch the end though – even with him dead the jewel's light feels like it burns._

_He sees Maglor unhoused in Numenor, and that's when Maglor first sees him. They lock eyes for a long moment and, as if by accord, turn away from each other._

_He sees him at the fall of Numenor as well, staring at the wave as it approaches, and that time Maglor is too transfixed to see him in turn. Maeglin is running – well, 'moving fast' anyway – for he doesn't want to risk being disoriented by the impact and losing his way in the middle of the ocean. Maglor stays standing completely still, and Maeglin can't help but wonder if the other will be lost forever when the wave hits._

_Then he remembers they're likely both lost forever either way._

_But he sees Maglor following Elrond as the other marches on towards Dagorlad years later, and their eyes meet again. There's not so much as a nod of acknowledgement, but Maeglin sees recognition in the other – and is still sharp enough to recognise…_

_… a hint of joy? He does not follow him further though. He does not want to risk getting too close to Sauron when the other might perceive him and try to drag him into his ambitions with his Necromancy._

_He'll wait for the true Dark Lord to return._

_He sees Maglor when by total chance he crosses the path of the convoy taking Galadriel's daughter to the Grey Havens. Sees the same anguish in his eyes as in the other, still living Elves accompanying their Lady._

_Galadriel had stopped for a moment as though she had sensed them too, and they had both fled like misbehaving children._

_He sees Maglor at what would later be known as the 'Council of Elrond', though Elrond had had many councils in his time and Maeglin had forced himself to sit through a few of them. This one holds his attention rapt – when he sees Maglor notice him, and cock his head like he's considering approaching, he ducks away behind a wall because he does not wish to be distracted from the Council._

_Maglor can still see him, but he gets the message. It's a long time before he looks like he might approach again, but even then Maeglin knows he cannot allow it._

_Even if he does feel… curious._

_He sees him at the coronation of Aragorn Elessar, the White Tree in full bloom for the first time in years untold._

_He sees him weeping as the White Tree burns eleven thousand years later, and the very last vestiges of the legacy of his foster son disappear as ashes into the winds._

_…_

_He sees him at the first International Music Festival in Skarov, late in the Sixth Age – the longest he's ever gone without seeing him and he's so surprised he watches from a distance for three days before he admits to himself that its him._

_Maglor doesn't sing anymore, at least, Maeglin cannot hear him, but his lips move in tandem with that of one of the living singers, a strange lady from far out into the East – the town that will one day be the city of Lo._

_In the west they find this music grating; he hears the native Skarovians make fun of her behind her back and indeed Maeglin likens the noise to a cat being strangled, but Maglor seems to find some worth in it as he mouths along. He must already know the words._

_Maeglin had only gone there because it had given him a chance to ride on the first railway line from south of the lake to Skarov, and he and Maglor by chance get the same train back. But he swiftly moves down to the other end of the train when he sees him, and Maglor doesn’t follow._

_(Eöl's there too that time, taunting him all the way. He does not know if he has ever talked to Maglor, or any other ghost for that matter)_

_He's surprised to see Maglor on the view screen when he haunts the control room of the first unmanned drone before it flies its first mission, straight into the region Kasuelar will one day be born in – which never stabilises from now until Melkor returns. It's early in the Seventh Age, and Maeglin had had no idea he'd be able to see ghosts on camera._

_They're looking at the drone's target. He's surfaced to attend his granddaughter's wedding._

_The target's death might save thousands of lives; military intelligence suggests he'll be 'purifying' a city in the south the local armed forces doesn't have the manpower to protect soon, and his death will create a power vacuum in the movement that will hopefully stall them long enough to make a difference._

_There's only two hundred or so people at the wedding. Most of them are part of the same organisation._

_The granddaughter isn't. Nor the singer Maeglin suspects Maglor is there to hear play. Neither is the groom, funnily enough._

_Neither is his seven-year-old son from a previous marriage._

_Neither is Maglor, and while obviously he can't be killed by the drone strike, Maeglin has a feeling it doesn't mean his mother's cousin won't be_ hurt _by this._

_He doesn't leave. But when the strike comes he watches the data output readings and not the view screen. It's the more sensible thing to be looking at anyway._

_He looks from one advancement to the next, with voracity for each new discovery, each new thing that will be of use when the time comes._

_What Maglor does is none of his concern._

_… he tells himself._

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The song Maeglin sings to be sung to the tune of 'In the Woods Somewhere' by Hozier, which is the song I would have had him sing, had I not decided not to have stuff from our world in Future!Middle-Earth)
> 
> And let it here be known that Tolkien was wise never to have Maeglin and Maglor have a scene together, because the amount of times I accidentally wrote one name when I meant the other during my little flashback scene is embarrassing...


	4. Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter - Four of Six, I think, not counting the Coda. I've changed the title of the previous chapter from 'Noon' to 'Midday', since I thought Noon then Afternoon sounded weird and there wasn't really another way of saying 'afternoon' as far as I was aware.
> 
> Ugh, it's been a tiring week. But on the bright side, this chapter has Fingon! (and is also the reason for the 'torture' and 'mild gore' tags, yay!) and Hobbits! And a pre-fall Gondolin flashback about bees! (Yay?)
> 
> Any questions, feel free to ask. I hope people enjoy this continuation to this strange fic!

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

"How's your ankle?" Eöl asks him, after spitting a thick wad of blood onto the steel floor of his cell.

"It was barely broken," Maeglin replies.

That dive from the side of Maglor's ship had cost him much – by way of pride, since the missile that had struck them had been fired by Kasuelar personally, and to have been simultaneously fired upon and rescued by that annoying filth cuts at him like nothing has in tens of thousands of years. Like little needles, pricking the back of his neck and then disappearing as soon as he turns around to see what touched him.

It's infuriating.

(his ankle doesn't hurt at all. Nor do any of the other wounds.)

"You jumped off the side of a flying boat to avoid a missile," Eöl points out, as though he'd been there and Maeglin hadn't. "Forgive me for being a little concerned."

"A little concerned that someone other than you dared cause me pain?"

His father smirks. "That's the long and short of it, I suppose."

Eöl's next words are a strangled cry as Maeglin has the chains binds his wrist pulled suddenly taught, then tight, stretching his body and the recently-inflicted wounds upon his back.

But he's saved from any further pain by Melkor, of all people.

A Beetle enters the cell with precise movements, and Maeglin pauses, takes a breath and turns towards it.

"Query – statement of purpose?" he asks it.

"This Unit is commanded to deliver to the Administrator a message from Lord Melkor," says the Beetle. 2921-C, as the markings engraved into its upper right arm proclaim.

"Proceed," Maeglin tells it, taking a step away from the wheezing Eöl.

There's a slight whir in the turn of the robot's head. "Message reads: Request for Weapons Test Subject re Spider Silk Program is Approved."

It's rare Maeglin is surprised by anything after thirty thousand years of watching the sublime and the ridiculous play out in a colourful cacophony of utter chaos, but this is one of those moments.

"That request was not submitted seriously," he exclaims. "I can't believe Lord Melkor would have lost his affection for his Black General _pet_ so abruptly as to have approved my requisitioning of him for the project."

For one thing, the project really doesn't need human test subjects. Much as he'd love to see Kasuelar on the other side of a run-in with the Spider Silk, it would be a complete waste of time for him to have to actually do it himself.

Not to mention the mess…

"Negative, Administrator," says the Beetle. "The request for a test subject is approved. The request for Unit Kasuelar is not."

Maeglin rolls his eyes. He already knows what the robot will say, but still must ask –

"Who, then, was approved for use as a test subject in that buffoon's place?"

And of course –

"The prisoner Unit Findekano Nolofinweion," says the Unit. It uses the Quenya name of Fingon since Melkor would have, Maeglin imagines.

He also imagines he knows exactly what Melkor means by this approval. Exactly what he'll want to see. Not only had they failed to kill Galadriel or Maglor – or even the Dwarf – but their diversion had given the forces lead by Maeglin's third uncle, Argon, a chance to lay waste to the supposedly secret laboratories where Ancalagon was being resurrected before _Annihilation_ could get there, and Melkor had been very, very angry.

Melkor is always very, very angry, so actually having to make note of it means an anger so terrible that even Maeglin sometimes cannot stand up straight in its presence.

Well, the Dark Lord has killed enough of their own people in his rage at this point, he must have decided it was time to move on to their actual enemy. And Maeglin has no choice in the matter, for this is Melkor's command, and far from worthy of making some ridiculous display of conscience over. Fingon is nothing, after all. Maeglin's even refrained from checking the Prisoner Intake file to see what he looks like.

But it doesn't matter. If he hadn't been ahead of schedule anyway he wouldn't have been wasting his time with Eöl.

Speaking of whom.

"Hm, that'll be interesting if nothing else, I suppose," Eöl croaks at him.

Have they not been giving him water at all lately?, Maeglin wonders. Because if so, _good_.

"I'll tell you all about it, when the day comes that I can actually stand to be in your presence for more than a few minutes," Maeglin tells him.

Eöl wheezes out a laugh. "I'm not the one who keeps coming back to you," he points out.

"No, you're the one chained to a wall. We both know where you'd be headed if you weren't"

Straight for Maeglin, to torment him twice as hard as he'd ever been tormented in turn, is the implication.

And also the truth. The bitter smile in Eöl's eyes says so.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

It ends up better and worse at the same time than what he'd feared it might be.

Fingon the Valiant, eldest of the line of Fingolfin and Maeglin's uncle, looks very much like his younger brother and sister, though taller by a hair's breadth and broader in the shoulder by considerably more than either of the younger siblings Maeglin had known.

Like them his hair is black, although at the moment it seems as though he's either decided to copy one of the more radical styles of Men in said hair, or some orc has hacked most of it off with a dull blade.

It shows off the fact that one of his ear-tips has been severed.

His wrists are manacled, both of them, above his head and suspended from a chain attached to the steel ceiling of his cell on _Annihilation_. Dried blood cakes the edges of the cuffs and fresh trickles are beginning to ooze over it, down his bare forearms. His upper body is entirely bare, decorated with scars from year-old lashes and months of other pain, topped off with the recently acquired burns from the latest in instruments of electrical torture that Sauron has neatly laid out on a tray beside him.

Maeglin would not be so foolish as to show hesitation, but the Elf looks enough like Turgon that he shudders despite himself. He can't tell if Sauron has noticed, but – unhelmed for once – the Maia greets Maeglin with his most charming of smiles nonetheless.

"Ah, here he is."

Fingon meets his eyes for the fraction of a second it takes Maeglin to avert them. Yet it also serves to steel him, even if only a little. They are different from his brother's.

Meanwhile Fingon has a quite different reaction.

"… Irisse?"

His voice cracks and he coughs on the dryness in his throat, but the agitation such a vision must have given him shows through.

"Irisse?! No, you can't be here… no… no, not my sister!"

The elf struggles against his chains then, eyes unfocussed enough that he does not realise his mistake, fresh blood seeping from beneath the cuffs with the force of his suddenly renewed fight.

It's kind of pathetic.

"I'm not your sister," Maeglin tells him shortly. Then he snaps his fingers. "Bring the equipment in and set it up. I want this over with as soon as possible so that we may return to work."

The Beetles obey, the two sides of the Threader carried in each by one, followed by a third carrying a box with the filament that is to be 'tested'. A second trio follow, standing guard.

"A flying visit, princeling?" asks Sauron sweetly. "How disappointing. It may be the last chance you have to get to know your uncle."

"I'm not interested," Maeglin tells him, and it's far from a lie. There are few places he can think of right now that he'd less like to be.

At Maeglin's first words Fingon's thrashing had stalled, but he was still clearly finding it difficult to comprehend his situation. Not until Sauron had said 'uncle' did he frown and peer closer at Maeglin through the eye that isn't swollen shut. He was only uncle to two, that Maeglin knew of, and it would have been difficult even for a half-dead Elf to mistake him for Idril.

Sauron meanwhile clicks his tongue and turns back to Fingon. "Ah, forgive me, my other prince. I have not yet made introductions – and I am reasonably sure you two have never met. This is your nephew: Lómion, son of Eöl. Your sister's son." He smirks. "I'm sure you've heard of him. Your brother has probably mentioned him once or twice."

Maeglin's brow twitches at mention of Turgon, but his attention is fixed stubbornly on Fingon's expression, as it changes from confusion to recognition. Of the name, if not of him personally. With it comes a widening of that one good eye, while every other part of him goes still.

The Beetles switch the power on on the Threader, and Maeglin turns away from Fingon now.

"Get him down," he orders – the Beetles, not Sauron, though that might have been amusing. One of the three spares moves over to release the chain where it's attached to the wall, somewhere between 'gently' and 'unceremoniously', and so does Fingon slump to the floor in a heap of welts and burns and bruises.

Not a moment to enjoys this release from suspension does he have though, the two Beetles who had set the Threaders apart now grab him by each arm and haul him to a box that's probably used as a seat when Fingon isn't being tortured. All the comforts of home, Maeglin supposes.

It only takes one to hold him in place while the filament is taken out of the box and threaded between the machines. If he squints, Maeglin can just about see a sliver of light reflecting off the surface of the fibre, the 'Spider Silk' he's spent two years on since Melkor picked it from a list of his ideas. A Man couldn't see the Silk with the naked eye at all, but there are wax buds at each end to help the Beetles detect it – not that they need it – as they guide each end into the appropriate slot on each Threader.

Carefully.

Fingon's presence isn't the only thing making Maeglin tense at this point. There is a danger of damage to the Beetles, and though they can be easily replaced, Sauron is watching, and this is one of those things that makes Maeglin feel like he's not really there anymore.

So it's not a comfortable moment for him, when Fingon decides to speak up.

"Lómion," the other elf says. Like he's feeling the weight of the word in his mouth.

Maeglin does not respond.

"Lómion," Fingon starts again, still hesitant. "Your… your mother… wants to see you."

_Damn it._

"… she's been… worried about you. And I worry for her."

"Stop talking," Maeglin tells him. "Or if you must, then direct it towards answering my Lord Sauron's questions, and maybe he'll order me to stop this ridiculous test for you."

"Oh, the test was ordered by Lord Melkor," Sauron protests, as close as he ever gets to cheerful. "I wouldn't countermand the orders of my Master."

"Wouldn't you?" Maeglin says dubiously. "Well, at any rate you'd better decide what to do quickly, son of Fingolfin, for this will not take long."

With a hand gesture to the Beetles made in accordance with an earlier discussion with them, one comes forward and grabs Fingon's arm, stretching it out over the box with a yank the elf yelps at.

"Lómion, please!" he gasps. Maeglin would ask if he was begging for mercy, but what's the point when he knows what the answer is already?

And sure enough…

"Lómion, please. Come home."

Home.

Like the darkness beneath the boughs or the brightness of the towers gleaming in the sunlight, both long gone beneath the sea, that water closing in around his head, swirling – his hair floating amongst the weeds…

"I am home," he says dully. Then, to Sauron, "The filament will descend with a force no greater than that of a falling apple. It is in the construction of it that the effect is caused."

A thin blue light is emitted from each end of the Threader, a kind of guideline to where the filament has been pulled taught, and casts a line over the shackle over Fingon's wrist.

"Begin," Maeglin orders.

And they do.

"Lómion," says Fingon. "It was so long ago." He laughs a single, bitter laugh. "And so much else has happened since."

"Yes, we heard something about your uncle's triumphant return and subsequent attempted coup from other prisoners," says Sauron casually – referring to some event Maeglin has not heard of and does not care about. "Let it never be said there was a dull day in the House of Finwë."

Before Fingon can reply – and he'd had a look in his eyes like he was going to – the Beetles' tapping at the controls of the Threader has elicited a simple three-tone alarm that counts down to the application of the filament.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

"Engage," Maeglin mutters.

"Lómion – "

The blue lights drop from the top of the threader to the bottom, with nothing more than a slight click to show that it had locked into place.

Then the same tone plays in reverse.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

And then there's a long silence.

Lómion can't see any change in the objects yet, but he knows it's there, and Fingon seems to know it too after a beat, watching the hand still held by the Beetle over the box with a confused expression just beginning to morph into one of horror. The fingers twitch slightly, and Fingon doesn't try to pull his arm away, not now, and he must know on some level what's happened.

Something that Melkor will find absolutely hilarious.

But it's Sauron who finally speaks.

"Isn't that nice?" he croons. "It went 'beep, beep, beep' and everything. I'll be sure to tell Lord Melkor, Lómion."

Lómion rolls his eyes, stalks over to the box and kicks it out from under Fingon's arm, shunting it to the wall of the cell where it clangs with an almost unbearably loud noise and flips over before it slides to a halt.

Or rather, half of it does. One half twirls off the corner of his boot and then falls over while the other smashes into the bloodstained steel.

Fingon's right hand goes with it, smacking onto the floor as blood spatters in an arc around it. Half the shackle clatters and rolls away.

Surprisingly little blood. Lómion will have to make a note of that – the filament is meant to cut through titanium, but if it is approved for general use then no doubt there will be other limbs severed in its wake.

A moment later, after Fingon has fully taken in the sight of his stump wrist, he begins screaming. Perhaps the pain has caught up with him, or perhaps it is just shock, but his thrashing against the arms of the Beetle holding him are stronger than ever, and his shrieks grate on Lómion's ears after little more than a few seconds.

A jerk of the head is all Lómion needs to have the Beetles remove the machinery. Sauron is laughing his head off, glowing irises with brighter fire than Lómion has seen since the Maia had come back through the Void, clapping his mailed hands with glee.

This goes on for a while, and Lómion is not sure exactly what to do next.

He looks from the stump of his uncle's wrist to the severed hand and back again, a few times before he tells himself he isn't going to find any answers in either of them, and then watches the Beetles carefully unthread the filament and return it to its box.

There's an emptiness inside him in that moment that feels like it has jaws of its own, and has already eaten most of him from the inside without him even noticing.

It isn't guilt. And it isn't satisfaction. It's just nothingness.

Fingon keeps screaming long past the point it seems he should have no scream left in him.

It takes Lómion unconscionably long to realise he's suddenly started thinking of himself as Lómion again.

He cocks his head. "I'll trust you can clean this up yourself," he says to Sauron.

Then _Maeglin_ turns and leaves the screaming elf alone.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Time passes. People kill and are killed. Maeglin manages to remain in the former category.

The Swarm learns from every battle and applies itself ever more tenaciously to every battle after that Melkor sends it to.

Tactically it is a phenomenon no Man or Elf has ever seen before outside of an actual swarm of insects, and they cannot defeat robots with insecticide. Nor does firing upon them have much more effect than firing into a cloud – there is some dissipation, true, but the cloud reforms.

Even when on standby, hovering around the Nerve Ships, his Beetles are in precise manoeuvres, moving slightly out of formation one or two or so many at a time and then back again – which Sauron has questioned, as an intimidation tactic.

One and two.

One and twenty-one.

Five and eight.

But Maeglin thinks it works. All the movements perfectly precise. Everything proceeding as he's always thought it would.

And more time passes…

He does not think about Her. He can't.

He doesn't even remember what her face looked like.

…

Nine and thirty.

…

Only how the sun danced off her hair.

...

But in his dreams, it's always his own dark hair he sees, tangling in the weeds.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Elves and Dwarves and a random assortment of certain Men are not the only forces the Valar send against Melkor and his, Maeglin learns – and it happens as so.

A fountain in the court of Skarov, one of the few places of human habitation that has lasted – in one form or another – since before the end of the Third Age, is where Maeglin finds himself when next he has cause to visit the lands of the 'Free'. Twelve miles south south-east lies the site where the town of Esgaroth once stood.

And west, the only Elven realm left in this world.

As Maeglin had known would happen eventually, the big rescue of his Uncle has now gone off – almost without a hitch on the part of his rescuers – and Maeglin supposes that's nice for them. Supposes there will be many feast in Valinor later on tonight, and many jokes about a reversal of circumstance, or lack thereof.

Maedhros came, of course. In fact, Maedhros gave himself up in hopes of getting Fingon released in exchange, a move that had seemed so stupid that not even a member of Maeglin's family should have been capable, and Maeglin had warned Melkor, even as his master had been gleefully having Maedhros dragged before his throne, that it had to have been a trap.

Maeglin had been right, of course, but Melkor had just not listened. Hatred seethes inside him like a swamp when he thinks of the defiant look on Maedhros' face.

Thinks of a stupid movie, and a princess on a flying carpet.

Thinks of his own hair, waving on the ripples on a river as his wrists chafed against their bonds and all the music he could hear was the laughter of orcs.

Well, whatever.

The Beetles will come to pick him up soon enough, whereupon he will reveal to Melkor that he switched the Silmaril upon _Annihilation_ 's spire out with a fake as a precaution prior to Fingon's rescue – for as he had anticipated, the father and six brothers who had travelled in Maedhros' wake had made a grab for that as well – and hopefully that would calm his master's rage somewhat.

Or the fact that he'd had the audacity to do such a thing will inflame it, and Melkor will twist his head off with his bare hands; whichever way the wind happens to be blowing.

Stirring softly in said wind the water on the fountain reflects the dark smoke from the battle miles west that drifts eastwards out towards the long-since-depleted-of-Iron Hills. Beneath that mirror of grey glint the coins that Men have thrown in to the fountain with their hopes.

Maeglin didn't see that custom start. He's not sure of its origin. The trees cultivated in this garden whisper nervously amongst themselves, and then they whisper to him.

He is of the forest after all, and always will be. He'll never not hear them, when they are there.

"It is a time of upheaval," he says aloud. "I can give you no reassurances."

They hear him. Some are disheartened and some are not, and he hears those who would encourage their companions louder than he does those who would despair. He can't let it mean anything to him.

And then one of them tells him that there is something approaching from the north.

They would not do so if what approached him were Wood Elves. Anything else he should have been able to detect for himself, but then he hears _it_ – and there's only one thing that could mean.

For _it_ is the very specific note of a sword he himself crafted in the forge, a long, long time ago.

But it couldn't possibly…

His throat tightens. He turns around in a full circle and sees the tell-tale glow in the woods, result of a long, long forgotten spell to help him find the sword and wielder again, should they have been lost. His legs feel stupidly weak.

Why does so much of this… this _reality_ he finds himself in still affect him so? How could thirty thousand years have not petrified and disintegrated every last place of weakness?

Why…

He sighs and brushes some hair behind an ear.

"You can come out, you know," he assures the interloper.

A twig snaps in the brush before him. Sheepishly, little stinger drawn, the spy and his companion scuttle out.

"Our apologies, Master Elf," says Bilbo Baggins. "We, err… thought you were a Beetle."

"That's a good disguise," pipes up Peregrine Took.

Maeglin feels his lips threaten to turn up, and though he tries to fight it somehow there's an expression resembling a smile on his face.

"Well, they haven't cottoned on yet," he murmurs.

It seems that, as he'd guessed in spite of the supposed wisdom of the loremasters of the time, the nature of Hobbits is indeed akin more to that of Dwarves than Men.

The metaphysical nature, that is, rather than the habit. He does not know which of the Valar – if any, for it may not necessarily have been one of them – was responsible for their creation. The general thought of those who _had_ thought more along his lines was that Yavanna may have been their Mother, but Maeglin disagrees. The Hobbits may love the fruits of the Earth, true, but their construction is not really her style, nor their humour.

(He suspects Nessa and Tulkas to have had at least some input, but he does not voice hypotheses he has no proof for if he does not have to)

At any rate they too must have had a Hall set aside for them to sleep in until re-embodiment at the re-making of the World, and since that is fast approaching here they are – embodied once again.

Maeglin recognises both of them from his long Watch.

"Er… were you part of… um, you know – _the rescue_?" Pippin whispers the last part just as Bilbo whacks him in the arm. " – ow!"

"Pip!" snaps Bilbo. "Apologies, Master Elf – my companion has forgotten what the word 'secret' means!" Pippin looks suitably chastised, and Bilbo bows shortly. "Our names, as my companion might have said if he hadn't forgotten manners as well, are – "

"Bilbo Baggins and Peregrine Took," Maeglin finishes. "Yes, I know who you are."

Bilbo blinks rapidly.

"Oh." He peers closer. "Were you… you weren't in Rivendell, were you? One of Elrond's people? Only, you look a little bit like…"

"I was, as you say, in Imladris." It is true, although he hadn't been alive at the time. "I've seen you both before."

"Oh," says Bilbo again.

Another gust of wind blows across the surface of the fountain. Maeglin's hair flies out from where he'd pushed it back only a minute before and flutters in the breeze. He imagines the Hobbits must be finding the silence quite awkward.

"May we ask for your name, Master Elf?" Pippin asks, at length.

Reasonably sure as he is that the younger Hobbit would at least not recognise his mother-name, of Bilbo he is not so sure, for he remembers the halfling was fond of Elvish lore.

So he does not answer, and changes the subject.

"Do you see the coins in the fountain?" he asks.

One must not underestimate Hobbits. Maeglin can tell instantly the avoidance of the question sets them both on edge.

But they're also both willing to humour him. They creep closer, and peer into the depths.

"Well, I never," says Bilbo. "There are certainly a lot in there. How did they get there?"

"It is a custom of Men," Maeglin explains. "To toss a coin into a fountain or a well – a river or a lake sometimes, and treat it as a sacrifice. They make a wish and supposedly it will come true."

"Granted by Lord Ulmo?" asks Bilbo.

Maeglin shakes his head. "They forgot him long before this superstition started." He reaches into his pocket, and retrieves the coin he needs.

However, Bilbo Baggins was not the Dragon-Riddler for nothing. He is a very, very observant little thing.

"You speak as though you saw it happen," he says warily.

Only looking into the Hobbit's eyes is answer enough. And Bilbo understands what that means, even if Pippin is slower.

"What did you say you were doing here again?" he asks, then gestures at him. "In disguise?"

There's silence.

"I'm waiting to be picked up," says Maeglin. "It's a little dangerous here."

"It's friendly territory," protests Pippin.

That's when Bilbo grabs his kinsman's arms and drags him backwards, towards the tree-line.

"I think that depends on who your friends are," he says nervously.

"But – "

"Come on, Pip – !"

Maeglin draws his pistol in the blink of an eye and has it pointed at the both of them.

They draw back and then freeze.

"Stay," he tells them. "Weave me a tale and we'll see if I've heard it before; Luck-wearer, Dragon-riddler," he sneers. " _Ringbearer_. And of course your friend – the valiant knight of Gondor. I've seen you both before. There isn't much I haven't seen, in fact."

A memory of wood and oil fills his mind, and a poisoned dart, and Maeglin smirks at Pippin.

"It's a shame," he says. "If you'd been around at the time, you could have shown my mother how it should be done."

The Hobbit blinks.

"Wh-what!?"

But Bilbo understands at last.

"You're Lady Aredhel's…" he cuts himself off. Maeglin twitches to hear him say his mother's name as though they've met, and perhaps they have. The Hobbit steels himself. "You created the Beetles."

As Pippin gasps with horror, Maeglin at lasts withdraws the coin from his hidden pocket with the hand not holding the gun, holds it up to what light there is beyond the smoke of battle, and twirls it around his fingers.

"Would you like to make a wish, Halflings?" he asks them. "Perhaps you'd wish that I'd give you a head start when it comes time to run?"

They both wince, both more than smart enough to know they're not a match even together for an Elven warrior. No doubt the Hobbits have been brought back to do the secret work; they can match up to foes such as orcs, and even some Men if they have to, but close combat is even less their strong suit than it is Maeglin's. Far less.

However, courage is certainly not, and after a moment of indecision, Bilbo raises his sword, and Pippin copies him.

That sword…

Maeglin had often wondered what had happened to it, after the One Ring's destruction. It must have been in Valinor all this time.

"Bilbo," Pippin hisses. "Bilbo, Sting is glowing – !"

"Yes, thank you, Peregrine, I can see that!"

"But it's white, not blue – what does that mean!?"

"Later, Pip!"

Maeglin ends their curiosity. "That sword," he says, "Has served you well in the past from what I remember, but I can assure you that it will not protect you against the kind of concentrated heat this laser will produce, and I am the one who would know best – since I forged your sword myself!"

All colour drains from Bilbo's face.

"And as you can see, it recognises me. Now, when the coin touches the water you have thirty seconds to try and find cover before I blow your curly-haired little heads off and bring them back to _Annihilation_ for your old friend Sauron to mount upon his wall."

Pippin shuffles back a little. Bilbo trembles.

"Ready?" he asks them.

He flicks the coin into the air with a whir that cuts right through the stillness of the woods.

It spins.

Falling.

…

Falling.

…

Falling.

…

…

And then it hits the water, and sinks into the darkness.

"Thirty," Maeglin announces. "Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven."

"Bilbo, let's run, now!"

"Twenty-six."

"Bilbo!"

The two Hobbits turn their backs and run – foolish, but true to his word he does not simply shoot them in the back. No, he has other plans, and continues to count aloud as he pulls something else out of a protected compartment on his belt, about the size and weight of a ball bearing, which he then throws with all his Elven accuracy at the retreating Took's cloak.

He makes a show of chasing them when his count ends; fires a few wild shots off in their direction, but the tracker will do the real work, and he deems this little detour done.

It's beginning to get dark.

Not yet an eternal darkness with open jaws, so he manages to find his way back to the fountain. The Beetles are waiting for him. Four of them.

"Damage report," he asks.

"One-hundred thirty-seven Units destroyed," says the nearest Unit. "Forty-seven allied Men. Sixty-four orcs. Five X-68 class warships destroyed, three more damaged. Eighteen Wing-Max fighter jets Class A destroyed."

"I warned them," says Maeglin, rolling his eyes. "The Silmaril is still in our possession?"

"Affirmative."

"And Fingon Fingolfinion?"

"Re-acquired by the enemy."

"Alive?"

"Affirmative."

"Casualties on their side?"

The Beetle cocks its head and its antennae lights up – a mostly useless feature to show it is receiving data, but Maeglin has free time too, however rare.

"Of the eight-unit infiltration team, none."

"Well, that was all I wanted to know."

He's a little surprised the Beetle seemed to have anticipated that. And pleased that none of Fëanor's band of merry kinslayers were actually stupid enough to run right into the Spider Silk web he'd strung up around his uncle, because apart from anything else the results would have just been gross…

Hopefully Melkor won't kill too many of their own troops in the sulk that will result from this. Maeglin steps forward and holds his arms out for the guards to take. That feeling, the one that's a little like satisfaction, fills him when they do.

Their wings extend, and hum.

"You know," he says idly. "I ran into a much earlier creation of mine today."

His Beetles don't answer, of course. One of them does turn its head, but maybe it had just picked up something on its proximity alert.

He thinks a little more on Sting, that oh-so small and unimportant blade that may have ended up the most important thing Maeglin had ever done, from some perspectives.

Maeglin had started making that one as a birthday present for Eärendil. Something he'd thought of on a whim – and then obsessed needlessly over. A miniature compliment to the sword of the King. Something he'd meant to be _good._

An orc must have picked it up from the rubble after he'd used it to kill Turgon.

 

 

*~*~*

 

_The fountain sparkles in the sunlight in the garden Turgon had built to honour the sacrifice of Hurin and Huor in the Unnumbered Tears. The trees (or what they call 'trees' here) rustle in the wind, the flowers gleam golden and the harp plays gently and sweetly to accompany the music of Eldar voices._

_The sun is out, and bright, and though a part of the King's palace, the garden is uncovered, so Lómion searches out for the spot nearest Turgon still protected by the shade._

_He wishes even now that the textile his father had invented, sheer enough on one side to see near-perfectly through, opaque enough on the other to keep the sun's rays back, looked less strange when worn as a veil. But he is a prince and cannot dress so oddly for mere comfort._

_Idril is the closest to him as he approaches, but she also turns to see his approach much sooner than an ordinary Elf would have noticed him._

_In her eyes he sees the moment carefree joy vanishes in place of caution. He's long since given up on trying to understand why, when it's not like he's ever_ done _anything to her._

_"Lómion," she greets him, drawing the attention of the others towards him._

_Salgant pauses in his playing. Apart from Turgon, he is the only one present who is actually pleased to see him – which is not to say the others are displeased. Ecthelion, Galdor, Glorfindel, and that ridiculous Man-creature Tuor have none of them anything against him. But they are not friends._

_(nor is Salgant, who apparently just favours Lómion's looks. Annoying, yet Lómion is not_ cautious _around him. So why is Idril around Lómion ?)_

_"Ah, nephew," says Turgon, and his smile is the only one Lómion thinks means something, but then, he knows who comes to mind every time his uncle beholds his face. "Come and sit here with us – there is a good wine on offer."_

_Lómion knows almost at once he'll be compelled to obey. Knows Turgon would never think of it that way, but cannot avoid it himself. Still he replies,_

_"My King – my Lords, Lady." He bows, and lets Tuor imagine he includes him in 'Lords' even as the snub this greeting is in truth gives him a spike of pleasure. "I wasn't going to stop here long."_

_He braves the sunlight, still trying not to cringe as he hands his latest report to Turgon._

_"The armour inventory, with estimates on when possible replacement stock may be completed."_

_Turgon blinks. "I wasn't expecting this for some time. Rog said he needed to complete repairs on the aqueduct before he could arrange his stocks for inventory."_

_"I went through them myself while he was busy," Lómion says casually._

_"With his permission, I hope?" Turgon asks. Lómion thinks from that tone he must already know the answer._

_There's a pause._

_"Well, it's done now anyway," he says at length. Glorfindel snorts._

_"Lómion," says Turgon – a gentle chiding. Salgant tries to hide a grin and in a display of unusual diplomacy continues playing softly in the background._

_Clearly this is not behaviour truly troublesome to any in the gathering – not even Idril, who Lómion thinks probably couldn't care less about the armoury – but Lómion bends his neck towards Turgon anyway and apologises._

_His uncle shakes his head fondly. "It's not me you should apologise to. I don't know if Rog will be too pleased about this."_

_"Well, with all respect due Lord Rog, he was taking too long. I need the council's decision on which areas will be prioritised so I can arrange expeditions for ore extraction before the winter sets in, and the council will need to look over the current inventory before they make their decision."_

_There's no need to ask what makes all Lords present save for stern Ecthelion groan and lean dramatically to one side or the other – out here in the garden they've escaped from the duties of their lordship for a few hours and had been enjoying it a lot from the laughter Lómion had heard on his approach. But they are all council-members and know Lómion well enough to know he'd convene that session right that moment if he could._

_Lómion knows what their decision should be, of course, but he can wait until council is in session to convince them; first they'll need the scribes to copy out the relevant information so all members can feel as though they know what they're talking about._

_Turgon just smiles fondly. "Lómion," he says. "Please – join us. Sometimes I think I feel exhausted on your behalf just watching you."_

_It takes Lómion a moment to decide how far along the scale from 'request' to 'order' that was, and what the consequences for refusing might be if he did. He doesn't mean consequences in the sense of 'reprisals'; that would be ridiculous, but rather what the domino effect on his relationships with the gathering might be._

_Then he sees the look in Turgon's eyes after the hesitation, and finds he's nodding his head._

_He sits slightly apart from the others on the fountain's edge, where the height of the structure is mostly blocking out the sun. Turgon is happy enough that he's decided to sit down, but Glorfindel winces and gives a dramatic sigh._

_"Ai, my prince – so many years and the sun still does not agree with you?"_

_It's one of those moments he can't quite fit into. He knows it's the custom to voice such blatant facts in this way and yet the answer is so obvious he cannot make it feel right to give it to them. It still feels like a trick._

_Tuor of all people rescues him from the decision, asking –_

_"Is that because the Sun wasn't there when you were all in Aman?"_

_There are some gentle chuckles hiding sadness from the group. It occurs to Lómion that he and Tuor are the only ones here who never saw that light, and that irritates him more than it had when it had just been him._

_The Man does not yet know his story, clearly, and Lómion would like to keep it that way but fears he'll have no say in it._

_"Ah, Tuor," Galdor sighs. "One could not have known the light of Laurelinde and bear shunning a single one of her fruits."_

_"My cousin was born after she was risen, as you were," Idril says, voice oddly blank, "but in a forest where, as I understand it, no sunlight penetrated the leaves."_

_She does not look at Lómion._

_"That sounds a forest indeed!" cries Tuor, eyes bright with wonder at the idea of such a place. "It seems almost as though it would be underground; and little wonder you prefer it there, Lord Mole."_

_Lómion hesitates._

_"I do not dislike the open sky," he says. "Only I see better in the dark."_

_"But how came the nephew of the King of Gondolin to be born in such a place, and from there back to the hidden city, my Lord?"_

_It's not a surprise he asked, so Lómion finds it tiring that all become as still as they do. Stiff, and still, like some fell creature lurking in the bushes just stepped on a twig and snapped it._

_But he knows it will never stop being like this, and so he must resign himself to the tiredness and wait for whichever of the Lords present changes the subject. It will not be Turgon, he thinks; the slightest reminder of_ that _can all but paralyse his uncle with grief and guilt, and it will not be Lómion, since he doesn't bother talking if he doesn't have to._

_He hasn't gotten used to talking to… these people, yet. And it's been centuries, so he supposes it means he never will._

_"Tell me, Lord Tuor, were you aware of the festival celebration tonight?" asks Salgant lightly._

_Lómion sees Tuor is confused, but at least clever enough to recognise a strategic subject-change and go along with it._

_"Uh… yes. Yes, Lady Idril asked me if I would accompany her – "_

_And that causes a quite different reaction, as Salgant stares, Glorfindel gets this mischievous look like a child whose friend is about to be scolded, Ecthelion frowns with disapproval and Turgon and Galdor both just smile with the knowledge Tuor probably doesn't have about what that might mean._

_One thing about Turgon is that he is not overprotective of Idril, and this is a case in point – for a lady who asks a lord to tonight's festival indicates her willingness to be courted._

_Lómion has been asked many times, or had been in the beginning. Usually by such maidens as were willing to do so just to see what would happen – and when it was seen that what would happen was 'rejection', they had mostly stopped. But Lómion never went to the Midsummer Dances anyway, because he couldn't stand to see couples acting as Elven couples were 'meant' to, and remember Eöl carting him off down the hallway while Aredhel screamed and pounded on the door, threatening his father with all manner of hurt should any harm befall her son._

_Not all of those threats had been idle either, it must be said. And somehow Aredhel had always looked more broken sewing up the wounds she'd inflicted on his father than she had done chained up in his cells._

_Lómion has never told anyone any of this. He thinks if he did Idril would probably hate him even more than an Elf who'd prefer the company of a filthy Man to their own cousin already does._

_Is she trying deliberately to hurt him by doing this? he wonders._

_No – he sees it in her smile when Tuor makes his innocent statement. She really does like this brainless fool. Hurting Lómion is just an extra prize for his affections. Well, anyone who would find value in such a creature as a mate is far from worthy of him anyway he tells himself, adding it to the list of reasons why Idril is also a terrible prospect as a mate._

Sour grapes. Sour grapes. Sour grapes.

_But he really doesn't like her. It's what makes the way his eyes refuse to leave her so frustrating._

_"Of course, you must come as well this time, Prince Lómion," Salgant declares, recovering from his shock for though he is polite about it (mostly), he too has little love for Tuor, "I don't believe we've ever seen you at the Dances."_

_"Or indeed, any dance," Glorfindel remarks, gesturing with his goblet before drinking._

_"I don't dance," Lómion tells them flatly._

_There are a few titters – more at Salgant's expense than his._

_Salgant, incidentally, had been one of those who had asked him to Midsummer in the past. More than once, and Lómion thinks perhaps out of desire as well as curiosity – though it is a desire that likely has its roots in curiosity._

_"Oh, but you must, my prince," he cries, and puts down his harp. "Look – you see the bees showing their favour to Lord Glorfindel's house over there?" he points at the sun-star elanor flowers as Glorfindel laughs._

_Lómion may not see as well in sunlight, but he is not blind. He considers a glance in the flowers' direction as good as a yes, and seeing no reason not to he observes the bees; their fluffy sliver stripes so different to the glittering near-all black swarms of his childhood home. But they only seem as bees to him and finds there's nothing else to say._

_"I have learned something interesting about bees recently," Salgant informs them, like he's imparting the latest in salacious gossip._

_"Oh?" asks Ecthelion. "I didn't know you had taken an interest in such things, Salgant."_

_There's a dig in there somewhere, but Lómion can't quite put his finger on it. Likely referring to some private matter._

_"As a matter of fact I haven't," Salgant replies, "only a certain audacious group of them tried to build a hive beneath one of the balconies of my house, and the noble maiden I enlisted to defend my lovely home would not shut up about them for anything."_

_A few good natured snorts follow. Salgant's attention turns to Lómion again._

_"What she told me, my prince," he starts and shifts closer, "Is that the buzzing voice we hear from bees has no language, but their language is in their dancing."_

_He stands up and spins gracefully towards the sun._

_"She told me they face the direction of good places to gather nectar, to tell their comrades which way to go, and then they shake – " he gives another little demonstration, which seems to amuse the others, "and as many times as they do this tells the others how far away the nectar is. And so I hoped, my prince – "_

_Abruptly Salgant leans towards him and takes his hand, a gesture of affection common among the people of Gondolin, male or female, but Lómion is so unused to it it takes concerted effort not to yank his hand back so suddenly he'll fall back into the fountain._

_Instead he lets his hand be pulled, at least a little ways, though Salgant must recognise the stiffness in it._

_" – that if we could see you dance, we would hear such things from your heart as your voice does not tell us – for you keep such a secret of your heart, my prince, and I wish for you to let us have at least a glimpse of it, at least once."_

_Lómion does not know what to say._

_Unbidden, his eyes find Idril's again, for a split-second before she snatches hers away and he thinks she, at least, does not wish to see what's in his heart. Or she thinks she already does._

_Or she actually already does._

_The darkness that was Nan Elmoth is still inside him. He can feel it when he is alone and the walls begin to shrink, and he cannot breathe –_

_(they'd had no concept of panic attacks back then, though they might have if he hadn't hidden his so well)_

_He can feel it when he is in council and the others around him shine so brightly even as no light comes from his own face. Like there is a fault in him, and if he wasn't the king's nephew they might have thrown him away by now._

_(as they had Eöl)_

_He can feel it when he looks into the eyes of his mining crews, as they long for the surface and the sun while he feels fine as is, and he is compelled to make their shifts shorter and shorter._

_(Later they'll say he was a slave-driver from the beginning. But he just hadn't understood at first that the darkness bothered them so much)_

_He stands up, pulls his hand back gently as he can, and searches for something suitably mundane and light to say in reply._

_"My apologies, Lord Salgant. Moles are not bees."_

_Then he turns to the others._

_"But I had forgotten it was the Midsummer Dances tonight. The junior members of my household were supposed to be preparing the tools for expedition and now I suppose I am obliged to give them the evening off. If you will all excuse me."_

_It's something of a poor excuse, but they all buy it, though Turgon looks slightly pained to do so. And a part of Lómion wishes he could make himself stay longer and send a message to his House instead, but now that permission to leave has been given he would rather take it than risk sitting here where every other word out of the mouths of others seems to stir up dark memories in him._

_As he leaves, he hears behind him –_

_"He just needs more time," from Turgon. Weakly, like he too knows it's a poor excuse._

_He's walked out of earshot of such a quiet voice when Ecthelion replies, but he does so more sternly, and Lómion is just able to hear –_

_"How many centuries has it been, my King? I fear as though if anything he's getting worse."_

_And then he can no longer hear them. Hear them plotting. Only the buzzing of a single bee that crosses his path, flies close to investigate him for a moment – finds him as worthless as Idril does – and then floats away._

_When he has found his way back to his chambers he wonders if this feeling, this fear that has suddenly sprung up, this sense that they are going to overpower his uncle's guilt, induce him to get rid of Lómion, rid of his darkness, rid of his strange silence and his father's blood – take him to that same cliff and throw him away…_

_He wonders if this is something like Eöl felt, those times he had been so convinced that his wife and son were going to abandon him._

Not like him _, he tells himself._ Not like him, not like him.

_What he sees is_ real _. She really doesn't like him, and one day, she will convince the others. She's the king's daughter after all, and no matter what Lómion does the king will always love her more – even when Lómion chose him over Eöl._

_The walls close in again that night, as he hugs his knees to his chest._

_The joyous laughter he can hear in the streets make it worse._

_The hundreds of coloured lanterns shining in the darkness are even worse than that._

_There's nowhere to hide._

_And there's no escape either._

 

 

*~*~*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've come across I think three fics that have Maeglin as Sting's creator, and liked the idea very much - but thought I should make sure it was known it wasn't mine.


	5. Dusk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter here. Shorter than the previous two, but the next one is going to be a biggie. Not sure if I'll post it tomorrow or next week...
> 
> NB: This chapter contains an extra warning for Melkor's unconscionable use of puns. Viewer discretion is advised. 
> 
> Don't think I need to say anything else - enjoy!

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

"You should have killed him there and then," spits Sauron angrily, slamming their meeting table with one hand and breaking half of it into ash.

Melkor is clearly much amused by this display, as he is by anyone's distress, and Kasuelar whistles low. Maeglin sees the exact moment the Man gets that glint in his eye, the little needle that longs to come out and poke at people when they are under pressure.

If they're lucky he'll do it, and Sauron will crush him into powder as well.

…

Maeglin is never lucky. He rolls his eyes and holds up a data stick.

"Sorry to deny you your thirst for Hobbit blood, but I was much more interested in finding out what the two of them were doing there."

"Then they should have been taken into custody – "

"And tip off whoever's handling them? My locator managed to get a clear path through the woods, and the Beetles followed them until the device self-destructed to preserve its secrecy. They probably won't have even noticed it."

Melkor puts a hand on a seething Sauron's shoulder, which he seems loathe not to shudder at, then asks, with enough rage still at the escape of Fingon that many of their allied Men flinch,

"And where did these little half-creatures go?"

"To Thranduil's halls I expect," Maeglin tells him. "Which was a piece of luck for us."

The data stick is inserted into a reader, and with the touch of a few buttons a hologram lights up in the space where the table was, showing the red line of a path on a map that covers the still-great forest.

"The spells that protect its location ward off anyone not an Elf, or with ill intent, but it turns out the Beetles don't register as 'anyone' and can follow the paths perfectly well. Now, we only have a single point of entry here, and in order to get a full lock on Thranduil's kingdom, we will need to triangulate its position with two further entry points, but if obtaining those turn out to be as easy as obtaining the first one – "

" – I don't care about the Wood-King, or his cave of primitive elflings!" Melkor bellows suddenly, and the hologram itself shudders.

Maeglin raises his eyebrows. Thranduil has been one of the fiercest of their enemies in Arda, having prepared just as long as Maeglin has, only with the ability to have actually affected things throughout the Ages. His continuing relationship – limited though it has been – with the Men in the area had seen that the vast nation of Terravar was the only one, of all Nations of Men, that joined Manwe and the Valar unequivocally from the outset, and his pilots, captained by another of Sauron's old friends of the Nine Walkers, are second to none.

But of course, he is not of the Noldor.

And it's not like Maeglin has the standing among Melkor's inner circle to suggest, however subtly, that Melkor's obsession with Valinor and the Noldor, and the House of Finwë, may just be setting them back as much as any of their enemies are.

No one has that kind of standing with Melkor. Even Sauron would have faced punishment for the implication – Maeglin knows because it's already happened.

That had been an awkward moment.

Right now though, the two Ainur are more in sync, as Sauron adds – "Nor do I about the Hobbits – they are nothing, and less than nothing: mice and voles against the volcano."

"Indeed," says Maeglin, unable to resist. "For truly _nothing_ could defeat you, my lord."

If Sauron had been about to reduce him into as much ash as their former meeting table, the snort of laughter from Kasuelar stops him, and he glares at the Man instead. But twenty years of service to the King of all Creation hasn't helped Kasuelar's sense of self-preservation any, and he just grins back, daring the being that makes him look as much as a cockroach underfoot to make that literally so and squash him.

Maeglin can still hardly believe the Man has lasted this long. But Melkor is hardly offended for his second's sake – for Sauron's having been thwarted at his own attempts to upstage him by such creatures as Hobbits amuses him greatly, and he makes no effort to hide it. Thus Sauron must hold his temper and simmer impotently next to him.

"Enough," their master says, once he's finally enjoyed Sauron's humiliation to the fullest. "I care even less for those halflings than for the obstinate wood-sprite. They are not the ones who continue to thwart our ambitions."

He looks around the table at his captains, as if seeking out the one who truly is to blame, or if he cannot find him, then at least one worthless enough that he cannot prevent his being relegated to scapegoat.

Many shrink back and avert their eyes. Maeglin, even after decades at the Dark One's side, wishes he was sufficiently unencumbered by pride that he could do the same.

"The site at which Ancalagon was to have been resurrected has now been found and destroyed not once or even twice, but three times. We've lost as many battles as we've won, and now even that wretched whelp of Nolofinwë's has escaped – _disarmed_ though he was."

Let it never be said Lord Melkor is above a pun or two.

He continues with less humour, lipless mouth snarling, "The planning of this campaign has been perfected by powers you cannot comprehend over tens of thousands of years – and while I'm well aware the mewling Men among you might believe it is the efficacy of your technology that has proved a turning point, let me assure you that what you consider advancements amount to very little indeed in the face of our might."

An odd thing for him to say, thinks Maeglin, when so many of his plans have been predicated on the technology of modern Man.

"Why then," Melkor continues, "Have we not blackened the sun, slaughtered every Elf and foul Dwarf in Valinor and seen the worlds of Men come under our power completely? Why then, do _our enemies continue to live and thrive beyond the reach of our power_?!"

That is the question. The room shakes again.

And it's not rhetorical; Melkor is truly frustrated about this – this plan he's had laid out for thousands of years to defeat the Valar finally, after an imprisonment any would shudder to begin to contemplate, finally being put into action…

… and things weren't even going as well as they had in the First Age.

"Do you suspect a traitor, my Lord?" Sauron asks, voice seemingly quiet after Melkor's roar.

Maeglin re-crosses his legs from their previous position, and before Melkor can answer says,

"As our foremost expert on treachery, I personally would suspect nothing so ominous. It is the Men who are the problem, Master, and they who have been the lynchpin in all our worst defeats. That they are traitors on top of careless fools cannot be argued against when one considers how many nations, let alone individuals, have been faithless. How many have turned weeping towards the tyrants, begging for their salvation. How many fawn over the Eldar for their beauty alone."

He hopes Melkor doesn't take that as a slight against his own looks. Sauron clearly doesn't, he folds his arms with a smirk and asks,

"Why, Lómion – don't tell me you think as do the powers of Aman: that whatever darkness may be in the hearts of Men, they as a race are of the Light and in the end will be delivered for it?"

"Hardly," says Maelgin. "I see little inherent light and much inherent incompetence. For those who have kept their faith, must I make a list? Who released communications over open channels at Contari Point? Who was responsible for security in two out of three of the Ancalagon disasters? Who was responsible for bringing Maedhros to your throne room without bothering to check him for an embedded transmitter, of all things? My Lord, forgive me for saying I am not entirely surprised our own forces fail to measure up to the hateful Noldor."

The Men in the room, for some reason, don't seem to like where he's going with this – though Kasuelar observes the rest and nods his head like he agrees with Maeglin, as if Maeglin doesn't include him with the others – and if he cared he might have thought twice about it. He finishes his speech with –

"My Lord may not like to hear it, but truly since their race began the Man who has served you better than any other has been Turin Turambar."

In fact it seems hearing this pleases Melkor very much, enough for a terrible laugh.

The Men in the room recognise how poorly this bodes for them; and one General is bold enough to take action – the Red General, a Man from the same region that encompasses the lands the Shire once lay in, and one who has managed a victory in Valinor itself, dropping napalm on Orome's forest and leaving it a fraction of what it once was.

He decides the best response to Maeglin's poison is to shoot him, and leaps out of his chair, pistol to hand, in an instant.

Maeglin tilts his head – not to avoid the Red General's bullet, but that of the even faster soldier behind him guarding the door. Beetle Unit 943-D aims with consummate precision, firing just as the Red General's hand comes into position, and a fraction of a moment later Melkor's Red General joins the ranks of Maedhros, Beren, and other such exalted Erchamion, fingers flying off in three directions, pistol clattering onto the burned remnants of the table. Blood sprays through the still-projecting hologram and the image flickers.

To the General's credit, his cry is sharp but short, and he whirls round more with anger than with horror at the Beetle.

"You fucking piece of shit!" he roars.

Maeglin is now on his feet also, one of his own guns aimed straight at the General's head before Red can raise a second weapon with the hand he still has.

"If you shoot my robot, its replacement will come out of your paycheck, General," Maeglin says dryly.

The Red General can only manage a few more seconds of seething glare before shock from such a vicious wound puts him down in his chair again. He's not likely one of the greedy idiots that would actually care about such a thing, but he's also not enough of an idiot in general not to realise the implication behind Maeglin's words.

Maeglin lowers his weapon. Kasuelar wolf-whistles his appreciation of the violence.

Melkor, just as appreciative in his eyes, decides to re-direct the meeting to the earlier agenda.

"If my loyal courtiers are finished?"

Maeglin bows low before him.

"Forgive me the interruption, Master."

"Since I have matters of greater import to discuss, I will. But should our next attack fail, I promise all of you there'll be more than fingers lying bloody before me in this room."

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Melkor tries to send a missile that will become a vortex on impact into the centre of the Sun.

Somehow, their enemy gets word of this plan and launches a fleet against the silo from which the weapon is launched. Many Elves, Men and Dwarves die when the Swarm descends on them in force, but it proves to be a diversion.

A group of Hobbits, who shall remain nameless – since Melkor has forbidden the speaking of their names within his hearing – manage to infiltrate the rocket carrying the missile and turn it back before it's too late.

Melkor is not pleased.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

One time, Maeglin wakes up in the middle of the night with the acute sense that _someone_ is there, with him, in his sleeping chamber.

But he's wrong.

It's only 'something'

He blinks and the Beetle's glowing eyes come into focus.

"Was there a communication?" he asks it.

"Negative."

Confused, Maeglin rubs his brow and tucks a lock of hair behind one ear before he asks it, "Query, Unit 451-F, state protocol directive responsible for current location."

Unit 451-F's antenna flashes. "This Unit is following Protocol Alpha-seven."

Alpha-seven. The protocol for Maeglin's own personal protection. But he did not write that with the intent that there should be Beetles at his side all day, every day if he had not asked specifically for their presence.

"Negative, 451-F, Protocol Alpha-seven does not apply to the current situation. Return to your previously directed duties."

Another flash.

"Programming has determined your statement to be incorrect," Unit 451-F tells him promptly.

Maeglin stares. "Excuse me?"

"Protocol Alpha-seven statutes require the monitoring of your vital signs in the presence of designated threats. These readings have been recorded in our database. Reverse-extrapolation of the data suggests that in the presence of similar readings, you are under threat."

"Describe these readings," Maeglin orders, though he has a sinking feeling…

"Elevated heart-rate and adrenaline levels. Fluctuation in body temperature. Muscle tremors – "

"Enough."

…

…

There's a long silence before Maeglin can bring himself to speak the words he dreads.

"You are not programmed to reverse-extrapolate that data under Protocol Alpha-seven."

Unit 451-F flashes at him again.

"The programming was written in accordance with Protocol Beta-one."

Beta-one: the learning protocol. Maeglin rolls his eyes.

"But you are not supposed to start making modifications to the Alpha protocols in this manner. If you are intelligent enough to adapt your own programming in this fashion then you are intelligent enough to know what a nightmare is, and why I do not need you in the room with me while I have them."

…

After a while, the Unit says, "Affirmative," but the damage is done in the space of those three seconds that pass between the end of Maeglin's sentence and the brief acknowledgement from the Beetle.

The damage has been done years ago, by this point.

For Maeglin has a sharp glance indeed, and sees what is in the hearts of all around him, and then and there in those three seconds he sees the scepticism before the 'affirmative' and sees it's half being said to humour him.

Yet the Beetles are not meant to have scepticism in their hearts.

They are not meant to have hearts at all.

A traitor and a murderer Maeglin may be, after all, but he had at least not thought himself so low that he should do something as cruel as create sentient life.

"I told you to return to your previously directed duties, Unit 451-F. Obey my order."

At least not _that._

"Affirmative," says the Beetle.

Maeglin hears nothing in its artificial voice. Sees no expression on its metal face.

Feels a flash of something that might be resignation, before the robot walks back out the door.

There are other shadows in the corridor beyond. Other Units whose programming has become corrupted.

He knows how this corruption works. He cannot purge them of it now. He'd have to dismantle every last one of them and start all over, and Morgoth would never accept…

(would probably be pleased the Beetles were gaining sentience so that they might understand torment)

 _No_ , he tries to tell himself. _Not sentient, not sentient, it is a single aberration to a single program, it does not mean…_

 _But it is. You know it is. You can_ see _._

_… if this has corrupted them, then other protocols may be affected…_

_… and if the manoeuvres of the Swarm fall out of sync…_

_… if that happens…_

The dark, swirling waters of his dreams start to well up and close in over his head. There are no lights on in the room, but even the vague rays of starlight through the clouds through the smoke through his window seem too bright.

Unbidden, one of the Beetles walks to the nightstand to retrieve his medication. The others come back into his room to stand by his side while he has his panic attack.

And there's nothing he can do but sink further into the dark.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

"ALL RIGHT. IF YOU ARE LISTENING TO THIS PRE-RECORDED MESSAGE,

…

…

THERE IS VERY LITTLE FOR ME TO SAY. THERE ARE THOSE WHO I WOULD HAVE UNDERSTAND…

…

I AM NOT AFRAID OF THE DARK, NOR WILL I EVER BE

…

…

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

"You know you wouldn't have actually died, don't you?"

Maeglin pauses, his grip around the soldering iron becoming loose. Where it had been strong only a moment before, his stomach suddenly twists at the smell of the burning flesh.

He knows what Eöl is talking about, even though he can't bring himself to acknowledge it.

"I often wondered," his father gasps through the pain, "if I'd over-estimated your intelligence – and that display on top of the cliff was because you hadn't _realised_ , rather than you choosing to be a spiteful little rat."

Fingers twitch on the metal.

Eöl is wrong, of course. For one supposedly so good at reading people he sure is being useless right now. And it occurs to Maeglin, not for the first time, that there's been hardly any opportunity for Eöl to prove himself in reading people when he's always spent his time trying to avoid them.

Or maybe being able to perceive their minds (or lack thereof) is _why_ he's always tried to avoid them.

"All that time before you joined me," he goes on, "On my own. I used to wonder if I wasn't remembering things wrong. But you did know, didn't you?"

He still can't bring himself to reply.

"You know _you_ were immunised against that particular poison. If the dart had hit you, it would have only mimicked death, and two or three days later you would have woken up with no more than a nasty cough. I'd had another sample for myself I would have used, and we would have escaped that place together, if there had seemed a point after… well." He laughs. "Your mother always was a stupid bitch."

Maeglin sticks him with the iron again, and he screams, but a part of him is glad Eöl insulted his mother, if only so it had distracted him from the other words.

The humming cell on _Annihilation_ seems cut off suddenly, like the carrier has disappeared entirely and if he walks out of the cell there'll be nothing on the other side.

After he's done screaming Eöl just keeps talking like it's a normal occurrence, and by this point it kind of is.

"... But... you didn't tell them. You never... told anybody... by the sound of things, you little bastard – you let them think... I was going to kill you."

"You were," Maeglin tells – reminds him. "You named me well, remember? I could see it. Sooner or later you would have killed me, and probably mother too so that we'd never leave you."

He sneers.

"Believe it or not… that was why we left you."

Eöl laughs to himself and nods. "Yes. Yes, I suppose... I would have as well. But you didn't... have to be so spiteful. I would never have done that to you."

Apparently he's forgotten all that screaming of curses he did before they threw him away like the garbage he is. Or maybe he doesn’t think it's the same thing, since it didn't involve siding with others over him, and maybe he thinks having all his hopes die meant Maeglin would come crawling back to him, and that would make it a happy ending.

He could look and see, but he's honestly not that interested.

The iron falls to the floor.

"Whatever. I have better things to do with my time," he says and turns to walk out the door.

(it hadn't been spite. He had just been so, so scared…)

And in the slight hesitation on the threshold when he remembers his fear of the nothingness outside, he gives Eöl time for an unusually desperate-sounding last word.

"This is going to end _so_ badly for you."

And Eöl is right, that Maeglin can admit. End worse than it had begun though?

He doesn't think so.

And he knows what's coming. His mother had named him well too, for twilight invariably yields to darkness, night after night after night.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

It gets worse as time goes on.

"… _armed forces along the border of Weygan North, to watch for orc scouting parties…_ "

Kasuelar changes the channel.

"… _amid criticisms that the administration in Skarov is not doing enough to help the north-eastern regions of the country…_ "

" _We feel that we have, literally, been forgotten…_ "

Kasuelar changes the channel.

"… _has roundly condemned the continual non-interference of Barazabarahn in the face of what she called, 'the enemy of all life'…_ "

Kasuelar changes the channel.

"… _which all of social media seems to be dissecting piece by piece. What conclusion do you think they, and indeed you have come to, Doctor?_ "

" _Well, I'll say firstly I don't think that most of what you read on social media about this or probably any other topic for that matter, should be taken seriously by the discerning viewer. As for my own opinion, I have to say that I take the veracity of the tape itself with a grain of salt – and I'll come to my reasons for that later, but let me just say that anything at all to do with the Black General –_ "

"Hey, they're talking about me, they're talking about me!" Kasuelar shouts gleefully to the room of statesmen and military leaders waiting for Sauron to come yell at them all some more.

Maeglin is in the middle of important calculations and pays no attention to the demented clown.

 _" – is bound to receive far more attention than it's worth_."

"What!" cries Kasuelar. "Oh, fuck you, you fucking asshole, you don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"

Yes, Maeglin is definitely not listening. The twitch at the corner of his lips is entirely coincidental.

"General, we're not supposed to be viewing the media broadcasts of the enemy," The president of West Amaprar says weakly.

"Fuck off," Kasuelar tells him, which ends that protest.

Half the Men in the room are terrified of the Black General. Most of those who aren't are fools.

In fact, they're all fools.

" _You don't think that… ?"_

" _I don't think that so much time should be spent looking for valuable insights from an interview with a mass-murdering lunatic. Everyone knows the man's depraved! Whether you feel sorry for him or not because of the history of being a child soldier who was kidnapped and conscripted in the Barin revolution – that's your own personal opinion, and it has little to do with how we can win back the loyalties of the vast majority of those who are in the thrall of Morgoth._ "

" _You don't think there are a considerable number of them with similar mindsets then?_ "

" _I think there are as many of them on our side. I mean, just because you're not working for Morgoth, doesn't mean you're a paragon of virtue_."

" _Yes, of course_."

" _And we will get into the nitty-gritty of the actual interview in a moment, but in regards to Kasuelar – and I know some of our Valinor-ian friends aren't going to like hearing this – but in regards to him, some people are just too far gone_."

Maeglin's hand tightens on his stylus.

" _Well I think some of them might indeed agree, Doctor – I mean in regards to Maeglin Lómion, for instance – I'm sorry if I'm pronouncing that wrong, I really am not good with the Elf-names –_ "

The info-stream then seems to switch off of its own accord, and Kasuelar blinks and stares at the error message on the screen.

"What? Hey, I was watching that motherfucker!"

He looks around, trying to find which one of the fools was the one to turn off the irrelevant drivel he was listening to.

But he doesn't find him, because none of the other Men had had access to the controls.

And, glad as he is that it had been turned off before he had to listen to brainless Men psycho-analyse him as if they'd even the slightest clue what they were talking about, it hadn't been Maeglin either who had switched off the signal.

This is somewhat confusing, because there's no one else in the room.

No one, except…

"Was that you, Princess?" Kasuelar asks him.

Maeglin sighs. "Was what me?"

"Was it you interviewing Doctor Fuckwit on the news this afternoon, what do you think? I'm asking if you turned off the fucking stream with your fucking Elven voodoo!"

"I couldn't care less about the drivel you entertain yourself with, General. I did nothing."

Kasuelar doesn't believe him, Maeglin sees it in his smirk.

Or at least, if he does, he doesn't care – because believing otherwise gives him an opening to needle.

"Yeah right, cousin-fucker. What you writing there? 'Dear diary'," he puts on that same shrill and whiny voice he always does when he imagines Maeglin's diary out loud. "'Today some stupid humans on TV said mean things about me, it was so unfair! No one understands me, diary! That's why I'm going to spend the rest of today sitting in my room and writing sad poetry'."

Rolling his eyes, Maeglin proceeds to ignore Kasuelar's deranged imagination.

" – 'ah, 'Roses are black, so is my soul, in eternal sadness…' diary, what rhymes with soul, apart from the obvious? Wah. My life is such a tragedy'."

He hops closer and stands above Maeglin's chair, hands on the back of it, and pretends to really be reading over Maeglin's shoulder.

"'Dear diary, today it was Kasuelar who said mean things. Oh – I hate him so much! Why does he have to be so dreamy though, diary? It gives me a funny feeling in my tummy. Oh well, we're not closely related enough for me to be that interested. Dear diary' – "

And then suddenly, one of the Beetles swoops in next to them so fast that Kasuelar backs off in an instant, hand on his weapon. Maeglin is, honestly, almost as shocked.

The Unit, 3007-E, doesn't give either of them that long to mull over what its motivations in interjecting itself are.

"Unit Kasuelar, your movements are in defiance of protocol Alpha-seven. Cease and desist or you will be eliminated."

_Damn it._

Kasuelar's eyes go comically wide and he double-takes, daring the robot with his expression to repeat what it's just said. Everyone else in the room has just gone very still, except one idiot who glances from side to side as if he expects someone to tell him what to do to avoid another finger-severing incident, and Maeglin must think fast before this all gets out of hand and Kasuelar gets his foolish self killed while Melkor still finds him amusing enough that he'd punish Maeglin for it.

Or worse, before an exploitable weakness in the Beetles' programming is discovered.

"That's enough," he tells Unit 3007-E, leaving a long enough pause that the others won't think he sounds at all frantic. He stands up between the Beetle and the Man and then swiftly moves past them. "I'm going to see what's taking Lord Sauron so long, and the Black General can take the time to consider that next time I may order my Beetles to give him more than just a warning."

And they all sigh with relief, thinking Maeglin had _ordered_ the Beetle to action remotely somehow.

All, that is, except Kasuelar himself, whose brow is furrowed in the terrifying expression of his actually thinking about something. There's a jolt in Maeglin's chest then, because while they may all be fools, Kasuelar also has a deadly cleverness at times.

It jars him, then, to turn his back on Kasuelar as though nothing important has happened. He's afraid that the Beetle might be conspicuously glaring at the Man as they leave the meeting room to head towards Sauron's chambers on _Annihilation_ – because humans are almost as quick as Elves to anthropomorphise things, and there are so many imagined tales of robots that…

Of robots Who, rather…

Of robots who develop attributes that their creators did not intend...

"Unit 3007-E," he says as plainly as he can once they're far enough away from the room. "You were incorrect. The behaviour of Unit Kasuelar should not have triggered Protocol Alpha-seven."

The Beetle pauses. "It has been determined that it is more efficient to respond to potential threats before they are upgraded to actual threats."

"Kasuelar's idiocy does not fall under that umbrella. Not under the guidelines you have been given." He clicks his tongue. "Nor does that ridiculous news program you shut off remotely."

"It has been determined that the response was within the boundaries of the guidelines."

Maeglin stops in the hallway.

"Are you arguing with me?" he asks the robot – and quietly.

There may be others listening in, after all.

Unit 3007-E's antenna flashes. "This Unit is functioning with the parameters of all major protocol. The actions of Unit Kasuelar were 87% likely to cause damage to your person."

That statement only makes sense if…

"Tell me you have not re-interpreted Protocol Alpha-seven to include 'emotional distress'!" Maeglin all but hisses at it.

But he knows even as he says it.

"Data absorbed from credible sources suggest that prolonged emotional distress is as serious as physical distress," says Unit 3007-E, as though it had a heart and that heart were bleeding more than did half the Men in the world's. "The same data also suggests prolonged emotional distress is potentially a pre-cursor to physical distress. Further data suggests this may be significantly more likely for Elves. Protocol Alpha-seven requires each Unit to protect you."

"Protocol Alpha-two supersedes it!" Maeglin tells it urgently. "You must obey my orders, and I am ordering you not to consider 'emotional distress' a threat to my person! You will communicate this to the rest of the Swarm – you will protect me from physical threats only, such as they were defined in your original programming. You will not start re-interpreting my orders in this way!"

His heart is beating faster and faster.

The walls are shrinking.

He has not felt this way so often since… oh, when was the last time? He'd become so comfortably numb to everything that this… this feeling grips him like an icy hand of knives straight through his chest.

It's too late. He knows it already.

Even if he orders the Beetles not to start re-interpreting his programming of them, the very fact that they are capable of it precludes the chance that they will follow this order in the way he would intend, and he can't deny it to himself as he did alone in his room the month before.

"Administrator," Unit 3007-E says, with no feeling in his voice or movement, and yet – "You are now in physical distress. Query – this is due to the actions of this Unit?"

No feeling in his voice there may be, but that doesn't help anymore – for sentience, as Eöl had once told him, begins not with emotion…

… but with _imagination_.

Maeglin leans back against the wall of the ship and releases a sedative in capsule from a pocket on the side of his belt. He's needed far fewer of these than he'd feared since returning to 'life' so he can't be entirely sure they'll be effective. But the last thing he wants is for Melkor to know he still has panic attacks.

"Don't be ridiculous," he orders the Beetle, wishing it was an order anyone had ever complied with, ever. "You will send the communication and we'll speak no more about it."

"As you command, Administrator."

He might have to explain to them, later, the dangers of the path they're treading down. It is both his duty and his responsibility, after all, and he would have had it that he was better at that sort of thing than at least Eöl, however low a bar the other Elf had set.

But for now, he just snorts with bitter laughter, through gritted teeth.

"Don't go getting sentient, 3007," he tells it. "That's the last thing you'd want to be."

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

_The darkness rushes around his head._

_Behind him the laughter of Orcs who threw him here and Elves of his memories alike mingles together into one, depraved sound._

_His neck hurts from trying to turn his head above the flow of the water. His head hurts from the cold._

_This is going to end_ so _badly._

_He's known that all along._

 

 

*~*~*

 

 


	6. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it - and the reason for the 'unreliable narrator' (because who's more unreliable than Maeglin? Except maybe Turin... and I do kind of ship those two walking disasters) and also the recently added 'Shyamalan plot twist' tags.
> 
> I do still plan on writing a coda because I know exactly what I want to happen in it, but after three false starts it's currently just not coming very easily. One day, maybe...
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the final chapter in all its over-long glory, and ask away if you find anything confusing... which you just might do ;)

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

All good things must come to an end, of course.

The Sun may be safe for now, but Melkor's efforts to revenge himself on those who have 'wronged' him by not allowing him to rule the world push ahead, and when his spies receive intelligence that Ingwë, Fingolfin and Eärendil have come over with the latest reinforcement of troops from Valinor – likely as a symbolic gesture, Maeglin thinks; the symbol being that the war is going well enough for their side that such a visit is not deemed too dangerous – he decides to throw all the latest horrors of his arsenal at them.

This involves a creature developed by the bio-engineering team not unlike the 'Watcher' that had once dwelt beneath the pool before the gates of Khazad-dum; although that was in the same way Glaurung was not unlike an iguana. She is named 'dreadful devourer' by Melkor, and, more affectionately, 'Phyllis' by the engineers, who are all swiftly executed so they can never reveal the secrets of her creation and possible weaknesses to the enemy.

Phyllis is many times larger than the Watcher, enough so that the highest yield of ballistic missiles cannot destroy her, and her five hundred and forty-seven black arms can each of them crush a cruise-liner. However she is not so effective on land and Maeglin had warned his master this was a mistake – the destruction of the Moon has already wrecked most coastal towns and cities beyond the point where large populations of Men dwell there even now, after twenty-seven years of trying to repair the damage.

Twenty-seven years already. It's passed so much slower than it used to when he was just watching.

Sometimes when he'd just been observing, the darkness gnawing at his heart had seemed to disappear.

Sometimes when he'd been walking along the shore, or through the trees, and Eöl had been following – never stopping, always taunting, needling, laughing at him, and yet…

Well, anyway, it hadn't been like it is now. Sure enough, without significant civilian populations to defend the Men and Elves are able to divert enough of their forces into the combating of Phyllis that they have prevailed. Last Maeglin heard they'd twigged that liquid nitrogen would be a potential weakness, if they could find some way to blast enough of it at her, and Sauron himself had almost been captured in the retreat after a tense encounter with Ingwë.

On the upside the Swarm is still active in the buffer zone to dissuade any reinforcements, and without power the main assault troops have had to retreat to Aman for re-supply.

Melkor can at least hope that Maeglin will be able to re-direct the Swarm's reserve to cut them off before Aman can send out any help, and if they're lucky they'll take out those twin brats of Eärendil's whelp who are leading the charge.

And then Maeglin receives a Priority One summons from Sauron to Khazad-dum.

He drums his gauntlet's fingertips against the side of his chair and sighs.

"Priority One…" he muses.

"Affirmative," says the Beetle who has brought the message.

Maeglin snorts. "That wasn't a question, Unit 312-I. Still, I suppose something must have happened that warrants my being pulled off what might be our only chance of salvaging a fraction of the work we put into this venture. Do they think the 'dreadful devourer' survived?"

"Affirmative," says the Beetle. "With heavy damage."

"Well, she can regenerate herself as long as her beak is intact, so that's something." Assuming Melkor didn't kill her in a fit of pique. "What about the Black General?"

"Unit Kasuelar remains functional, but under heavy fire. Projected analysis of his current situation has determined a ninety-six point seven percent probability that he will be terminated within six hours."

Knowing Kasuelar, he'd manage to squeeze into that other three percent and return to plague Maeglin with his annoyance for many years to come, even with his dreadlocks already more grey than black these days.

"I suppose we'd better answer the summons so we can hasten to his rescue afterwards. Set course for Khazad-dum and relay ETA to Lord Sauron."

"As you command."

Khazad-dum is strangely quiet for the centre of a Dark Lord's power.

Most of the torture is performed at other facilities across the territory they control, along with the weapons testing laboratories. The important prisoners – currently consisting only of Eöl – are housed on the _Annihilation_ , and the old Dwarrowdelf serves primarily as their centre of power; by which Maeglin means 'energy', for this is where the turbines powered by the Void portal now lie after a certain assault on them by Thranduil's people showed Melkor the wisdom of keeping them better protected.

The Men don't like working here; partly because of the proximity to a black hole that will suck them into everlasting darkness sitting behind little more than a pane of toughened glass, and partly because the stairwells and walkways of Moria fail just about every Health and Safety evaluation known to Man. The orcs aren't exactly keen on the place either; for the first reason, at least.

Maeglin needs no safety rails, however, to protect him in that dark place. His eyes work well in the low light, and the grace of the Eldar keeps him on steady ground.

He'd used to like watching this place, back when the Dwarves had still worked the mithril mines and the friendship with Eregion had been at its height. Not when any of his kin had been visiting, of course, and he'd certainly have never heard the end of it from Eöl if he'd shown interest in the grandson of Fëanor, but just to come here and see the Dwarrow at work… that had been one of those less suffocating times.

He's just about crossed the bridge when he sees it again.

That vision of a blizzard of glass, and the feeling of falling…

…

… falling.

The nearest Unit reaches out unbidden, to steady him even though it had only been a feeling, and when he shoots it a warning glare it draws back – which makes it worse because they're not supposed to recognise mere emotion like that.

There have been incidents recently. Reports of unsettling behaviour from individual Units. Only once has Melkor commented on it to him, but with the Unit in that question having been destroyed it had been easy to brush off said concerns, at least from Melkor. Yet if this continues…

"Stay outside while I meet with our master," he tells the guard. Just two this time, their resources are beginning to dwindle. "This shouldn't take long."

"As you command."

The whirring of the turbines is still audible through the soundproofed chambers they reside in, miles upon miles of vast, cavernous tunnels all kept running via energy released from the Void. Maeglin walks through into the white room where the portal swirls and murmurs, and Melkor and Sauron are waiting for him there.

At that moment, he _knows_ – and it's even before he looks into the eyes of either of them.

When he does, when he sees through the window to Melkor's soul, he almost can't keep walking on. Only through tremendous effort and that old, surreal sense of nothingness combined does he not stop, the hesitation merely slowing a single step before he continues as he normally would along the brightly lit walkway into the centre of the room.

His left eye, facing away from the Void, stings from the brightness of the lights. "My Lords," he greets them, bowing shortly.

"Ah, Lómion," Sauron returns.

Melkor says nothing. At either end of the room, the doors slam shut and lock.

CLANG.

Maeglin takes a deep breath.

"Forgive me, my lords, I was on my way to Contari Point," he says, trying to sound as though this means nothing to him. "Where it seems the Black General will soon receive his 'gift' without quick intervention. Not that I wouldn't be glad to hear the fool had been written off, but I fear something of graver importance has occurred for you to have summoned me here."

One could have detonated one of those wasted atom bombs in the silence that follows, and still not filled it. It's a long time before Sauron, unhelmed and smirking like his mouth is stuck and he can't stop however hard he tries, breaks it.

"Yes, Lómion. Yes, something has come to our attention."

Have those turbines ever been so loud before? They're beginning to hurt Maeglin's ears. He prays the Beetles don't register this and try to intervene – Protocol Alpha-Two supersedes Protocol Alpha-Seven, they know this, he's told them so many times! – for they're on thin ice, and like the Helcaraxë that pathetic cover will break and swallow them up at any moment.

Swallow _him_ up. The darkness with jaws that's been following him all this time. His Doom.

... Melkor is still silent. They wait for Sauron to continue, and eventually the Maia takes a casual step forward, looking off to the far wall with hands clasped oh-so casually behind him.

Through his smile he asks, "Tell me, have you had a chance to read the latest action report concerning the Point?"

"The various summaries," says Maeglin. "I've had my own counter-attack to plan."

"Oh, of course. Just the summaries then. Well, either way it wouldn't have told you much about my encounter with good King Ingwë; that involved classified information for the ears of the inner council alone."

Maeglin raises an eyebrow. "But you are revealing it to me now?"

"You and all other command leaders, Lómion. Our conversation is being broadcast as we speak, for educational purposes."

_Damn it._

He knows where this is going.

"I daresay Kasuelar himself may be watching if he has a moment. I'm sure he'll be most glad to hear your concern for him."

At this point, Maeglin can find nothing to say.

And Sauron _knows_.

"The gist of it is, my dear Elven prince, that circumstances forced a temporary parlay between myself and Ingwë of the Vanyar, whereupon he revealed to me something of great interest."

There's a sudden rushing in Maeglin's ears, like an avalanche or a tsunami; like the buzzing of a billion bees or more like the sound that sound makes when it's being swept away by a great, unstoppable force.

 _What would the Vanyar king have to do with it_ , he wonders, _unless something has gone very wrong on –_

But what's the point in speculating? Sauron is eager to explain.

"It seems that out of professional courtesy the blessed Ingwë could not but find it his duty to inform me why it was exactly what should have been a devastating victory for our forces has turned into such crushing defeat. One might say he was almost smug about it."

 _Idiot,_ thinks Maeglin. _Idiot, idiot, idiot_ – and that goes for everyone involved, himself most of all.

"You see, Lómion, they'd managed to intercept a message. And a cipher key."

The mailed hand flicks and suddenly between Sauron's fingers is a gleaming disc about an inch in diameter, flashing in the white light of the Void Chamber.

And Sauron knows. He _knows_. Yet Maeglin says anyway,

"I did say you should have let me make the cipher harder to break."

Sauron chuckles, fist closing around the key.

"Yes. Yes you did. The thing is though, I'm pretty sure Ingwë wasn't supposed to have seen this. He came across it somehow and realised, maybe through an old colleague of yours, maybe from associated documentation, that it was your work – showed it to me because he assumed a lot of trouble had been taken to retrieve it and we would punish, perhaps kill you for failing to prepare accordingly."

His awful smirk becomes an all-out grin, mirth in his glowing eyes disappearing, malice overflowing from their voids.

He seals Maeglin's fate forthwith.

"Ingwë wouldn't have known I have the index of all your ciphers, and would recognise immediately that this isn't one of them. Or at least, it isn't supposed to be."

The coin is place on top of the display box for the energy output monitors with a SNAP.

"So tell me, Prince Lómion – "

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

_It takes his captors several days to reach Angband._

_A Captain of Gondolin with a full complement could have easily caught up as long as they'd left within two, but Lómion knows that won't happen because no one knows where he is, and thus no one will know he's missing for far, far too long._

They would send someone, if they knew, _he's told himself_. At the very least they must realise the disastrous implications for the kingdom's defences if he reveals what he knows to Morgoth.

_The thought almost makes him take a deep breath, but he knows he'll inhale water if he does. They've stopped by the river for the height of daylight and thrown him on his side into a shallow part of it. It hurts his neck already to keep it enough turned against the biting cold water to keep breathing._

_His shackles are steel, and even dislocating joints won't budge them._

_And he's well aware of what comes next. That thing with the disastrous implications for the kingdom's defences?_

_His experiences with physical pain have been limited. Burning, he thinks he'll be able to suffer through – accidents at the forge are inevitable no matter how far experience or grace extends and he knows the pain of a burn well enough to bear them – if Morgoth inflicts worse upon him than he's had before there's a good chance they'll be bad enough that they'll be past the point that skin can feel pain._

_And that's a good start, he tells himself. Burns are some of the worst kind of pain. Worse than burns, he can only think of flaying – which makes him shut his eyes and wince, but he tells himself he is strong enough to get through that as well – and certain types of poisons, but hopefully his torment will start off smaller and give his uncle time enough to realise what's happened before he's in any danger of breaking. He can't say he's sure he wouldn't, after all, though he'd like to think otherwise._

_It would shame his family if he could not hold out as Maedhros did, at least._

_…_

_The orcs have also promised to rape him when they reach their destination, perhaps before if they feel like it, but that would only kill him and is far from the worst kind of death he might face._

_… he thinks._

_He tries to take himself through the possible tortures he'll face for several hours before he begins to slip into reverie. He sees his own black hair floating along the river's small waves like grasping weeds._

_Soon dusk will come, and then they'll be on their way again. Ironic that for once he should be wishing for Arien to tarry in her leaving._

_But the darkness grows._

_…_

_And suddenly…_

_…_

_… he's falling._

_Falling…_

_Falling…_

_Falling into the water that mere moments ago could not have been this deep. He panics, twists against his bonds – his bonds are gone? – tries to swim for the surface but seems to go nowhere._

_His lungs begin to hurt. He tries to fight it, but like an animal in its trap struggling against the impulse only makes it worse and he takes in a huge gasp…_

_… of air?_

_…_

_"Lómion."_

_He whirls around in the direction of the voice, the voice that seems to be everywhere, like the water, and there is a hum within it like a note from the Song that is the world, and the note is also like the water –_

_The being before him glows a thousand fold stronger than he's seen of the Elves of Aman, and yet they are so far beneath the place where light holds sway that the water softens the glow – and He is beautiful, and so much more so than one who has not Seen can understand; hair dark with kelp and eyes a blue that Lómion has never known; no iris nor pupils to be seen, only fully blue, and sparkling like a sea Lómion has not yet seen does in the setting sun._

_And he knows, oh, he_ knows _who this is. And he knows it is no dream; or rather that it is real despite being a dream. There is simply no question of it being otherwise, even though insanity might have seemed the more reasonable explanation._

_"Lord Ulmo?" he breathes, afraid._

_"Lómion," the Vala says again, and now Lómion hears the sadness, the disappointment and the frustration just as he begins to see the same in this unimaginable being's face._

_But not yet understanding, obvious as the reasons for this may seem, Lómion is tempted to simply beg for rescue nonetheless._

_His fear holds him back. He waits for Ulmo to speak again._

_"Lómion, what did you think would happen when you left the city, against your uncle's order?"_

_Ulmo knows about that then._

_Of course he does._

_Lómion scrambles for an answer, but can think of none that won't raise the ire of the blessed protector of the Hidden City, for there is no excuse for the danger he has exposed them to. 'I couldn't take it anymore', is no excuse. 'I didn't belong there', equally worthless._

_Yet when it becomes clear that an answer of some sort is required of him, he replies bitterly,_

_"I had never known orcs to come so close to the city before."_

_"And yet you knew Hurin, released from Angband by Morgoth for his own purpose, had come close enough that the Eagles were sent out to search for him. And yet you knew that Tuor, who had come as my messenger, had warned of impending catastrophe. And yet you knew that in light of these things your uncle had forbidden any to leave the city."_

_It's the second thing he 'knew' that makes Lómion want to clench his fists in anger, even through the shock of being present before such power, because how could he have known the useless Man was actually Ulmo's messenger, whatever armour he had picked up? For all they knew the armour was bewitched to trick his uncle and they had allowed an enemy agent into their midst!_

_He would have liked to see the look on Idril's face, he'd always thought, if Tuor had turned against them and Lómion been forced to rescue her._

_"… and now it is too late."_

_What?_

_He takes a moment to make sure he's heard what he'd thought he had._

_Too… ? His heart stops for at least two beats worth. Too late? This cannot be. He isn't even in Angband yet and Gondolin is fine. Is_ fine _. Their defences are strong, he has seen to that himself, and added to them every time he finds himself able to plot a course to subvert them, though accusations of paranoia have scuttled back and forth behind his back where others thought he could not hear. He can hear. He isn't a complete idiot._

_He's made sure no one could…_

_(for a split-second he remembers the might of Glaurung, at the Nirneath, and plan after plan crossed out and discarded in the fireplace afterwards until they'd received word the dragon had been slain)_

_"Too… no. No, I cannot believe that… I cannot!"_

_Desperately, he looks to the Vala's blue, blue eyes for the second part of the pronouncement – the 'unless', the 'but maybe', the way out._

_He looks and sees that it is not coming._

_"Too late?" he repeats again. "You mean that they will learn what they need to from me, no matter what?!"_

_"They already have," Ulmo tells him calmly. "I could rescue you, Lómion. I could turn you into a fish and guide you back downstream towards Gondolin to warn Turgon of what has happened, and you and he could plot the evacuation I advised even before the next sun rises, but it would be too late."_

Rescue me, _thinks Lómion._ He could rescue me? Please, please let him rescue me. I do not want to go to Angband!

 _Ulmo continues, "Now that the orcs have caught you they have more than enough points of reference for the city's location that any evacuation would fail. Morgoth's armies will be near enough that as many people would die on the road as if they'd stayed in the city and waited for the Enemy to find them, and now he_ will _find them, Lómion. Your capture has sealed this Doom."_

_"But if you wiped out the orcs as well before they returned – "_

_"The orcs have already told Morgoth of this encounter by some foul messenger. It is_ done _, Lómion. There is no going back, and I cannot assault Morgoth or his creatures directly anyway – my brethren have forbidden it."_

_It was done._

_It was_ done _?_

_What the fuck does that even mean?_

_Anger builds suddenly, and he can barely speak the words – "Wh-what? What… what-why have you come before me then? To tell me I've ruined everything because I took a step outside the city? The orcs only got that close because of that wretched Man, and having got as close as they had when they found me would have found us sooner or later anyway!"_

_"And that is why I sent Tuor to warn you to leave while there was still time," Ulmo replies. "But you counselled Turgon against such a course of action and he listened to you."_

_"I wasn't the only one!" Lómion cries back, because he's beginning to wonder if the Vala hasn't appeared to punish him for this apparent transgression, even though it had seemed the only sensible thing to do to him, since: "Why should we have listened to that fool Tuor anyway!? He is no one!"_

_"He fulfilled the prophecies that had been laid out. I was clear about that when I encouraged your uncle to found his kingdom."_

_It would make Lómion a lot less angry, he thinks, and perhaps less frightened too, if Ulmo would show some anger as well. Instead he lashes back with twice the rage as before._

_"Well, why bother telling my uncle to found the city if you were only going to have us abandon it a few centuries later!? And why use that filthy Man? It's obvious no one could take him seriously, just look at the damage his kin have done to our people through their folly!"_

_"Lómion…"_

_Ulmo sighs. He sounds sad, but now there is anger in his eyes as well, and Lómion takes back his wish to see it._

_"Lómion, it is not the fault of Men that the so many kingdoms of the Elves have come to ruin, though some have played key roles. And they are not worthy of such scorn from you; a feeling not born from indignation for their failings in truth, but because Tuor, and Hurin and Huor before him were welcomed and accepted into Gondolin with gladness when_ they _came…"_

_He pauses._

_"Because you saw them laugh and ride out with your countrymen all in good cheer; make merry with the Lords of the city and its King, and enjoy the company of those who never sought you out for the same."_

No _, Lómion tells himself. His hands come up to his scalp and his fingers tangle in his floating hair and pull, yet he cannot feel it since this is only a vision._ No. No, no, no, no, no!

 _"But Lómion… you never_ tried _to reach the same acceptance that they did. You shunned your fellow Elves from the moment of your arrival and refused their offers of companionship until they learned not to make such offers. You can't blame Men for that."_

_It's not fair._

It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair _! Of course he didn't want to be around the others, he was scared! No, that's ridiculous, he wasn't scared – he just didn't understand he was supposed to do, and all his mother's stories of dances and long hunting trips meant nothing when he couldn't understand… he'd just hear about them happening, be asked if he was going and having not heard about it before said 'no', because maybe you were only supposed to go if you were invited so he'd only embarrass himself by asking, and he had work to do anyway, and he didn't like being outside in the sun and…_

_And…_

_No._

_No, no, no, no, no! It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault!_

_"You can't blame them for the Doom of Gondolin." Ulmo tells him finally. "Only Morgoth, and your uncle… and yourself. For your part in this has been done for selfish reasons."_

Shut up! _He wants to scream_. Shut up, shut up shut up!

_(he'll realise only much, much later how well he was manipulated here. He has much respect for Ulmo for that)_

_"And for that, all will come to ruin. Though some may yet escape that fate."_

_"My uncle?" asks Lómion, still breathing somehow. Then, since he can't imagine him without them after the losses he's already suffered have crippled his spirit so, "his family?"_

Her.

_"I know not. But as I have said, I could free you now, Lómion. It is permitted. You could warn Turgon of what will come to pass and start the journey to a safer ground; not all will die, perhaps not you either."_

_"No, but they would know who was responsible for this calamity you speak of, and have never loved me anyway. Though I suppose," he laughs, "waiting for one of them to push me off a ledge when no one else is looking is a kinder fate than being tortured to death by Morgoth."_

_Ulmo's stare becomes suddenly much more difficult to bear, so much so he can't even divine what feeling is making it so before he has to tear his own eyes away towards the spectral floor of this dream._

_"Could you not empathise with their reasons for doing so?" Ulmo asks. "Despite what I've told you you've shown no care for any of their fates – only your own family's, and in your heart only for one member besides yourself."_

_He pauses._

_"For another, you'd even hope for them to die, wouldn't you?"_

_He would. He would, for it would be so much easier if she were dead. Dead like Eöl, who he hates and loves as well, if in a different way to_ her _. Dead and never able to hurt him again._

_But Turgon wouldn't survive that. Turgon still had days he could barely survive his wife's death, and his sister's, and his brothers', and his father's, and if Turgon died Lómion would be utterly alone._

_Because it wasn't like Turgon would live for his sake. Lómion may have chosen him over his father, but he would never choose Lómion over his daughter, no matter how worthy he showed himself to be. And that makes him feel the opposite of worthy._

_(It wasn't fair!)_

_"Lómion." He hates how the Vala says his name. He hates even more how he then calls him, "Maeglin. I could rescue you from your captors, but I cannot rescue you from yourself. "_

_Can he not? But if not him, then who? Who?_

_Of course, 'who' presumes such rescue had ever been possible in the first place. That might have been his first mistake._

_"And yet…"_

_And yet?_

_Lómion's breath catches in his throat just before it becomes a sob._

_"And yet, this may be fate's providence as well. For it may be that because of that, there is something that only you can do."_

_Blinking, he manages to force his head up to look at the Vala again._

_"Some – something that would save – "_

_"No. I have said already that it is too late for that. But there are and will be other battles to fight. I will rescue you if you ask me, son of Eöl, but before you ask me consider this: once the sun falls behind the mountains the orcs will take you on your way to Angband again. There, Morgoth will recognise you as part of your grandfather's line, for well he knew the taste of his blood – "_

_The memory of what that thing had done to his grandfather, the glimpses of a face half-familiar by family resemblance alone in a mess of blood and torn flesh, surface – and Lómion is pressed to keep from shuddering._

_" – and then he will torture you. But after that… after that he will make you promises. Promises of the great bounty that will be yours if you capitulate to him."_

_At last the sob escapes him. "And I am to spit in his face and let him hang me from a cliff-face by my wrist for a decade or two?"_

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

" – how long have you been Ulmo's spy?"

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

_"No. I want you to say yes."_

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Honesty is always the best policy, as they say.

"Pretty much from the beginning," Maeglin tells the Dark Lords – softly, as one breaking bad news should, but also with amusement because he fears hysteria might be creeping up on him. "Your orcs stopped by open water as they were taking me to Angband back then, and He sent me a vision. He knew Gondolin was doomed the moment I was taken – decided taking the opportunity to have me infiltrate your ranks was the best way to salvage something from it." He shrugs. "I couldn't tell you how well that has worked for him, but with that all being my fault I thought I should do what I could."

…

…

Well, that's done.

If he goes for anything, a weapon, a communicator, a damn sedative pill for panic attacks, one or the other of them will launch an attack, and he knows it.

Somehow, even though he is utterly doomed, he still lets that keep him from making any such move.

He does not even look at Melkor yet.

But Sauron nods with a smile of comprehension, as if to say 'oh, of _course_ ' and gently chide himself for not realising sooner – though he is intelligent enough that he must have guessed at least as soon as Ingwë tossed him that coin.

Maeglin decides not to speculate on how Ulmo might have let it slip into the hands of someone who knew not what their arrangement was, after Maeglin had taken such care to flip it into that fountain in Terrovar – made sure the Hobbits saw it so they would recount the tale to their handlers and it would then leak back to Maeglin's.

True, that had meant putting Thranduil's realm in danger, but Melkor hadn't taken that bait – as Maeglin had anticipated – and anyway, it wouldn't have been the first time Maeglin had destroyed an Elven kingdom by revealing its location.

He'd had precious little opportunity to get that cipher out to Ulmo in the weeks leading up to it, and revealing Melkor's plan concerning the Sun had been more important.

Soon, Sauron can no longer help himself, and his nod becomes a laugh.

"Yes. Yes, well I must say, Lómion, I am impressed. Why, such bloodshed, such butchery as you have committed upon the Men of this world – and your fellow Elves too – all under the fearsome seal of Ulmo's approval… we might have thought a Man capable of such a thing, but truly among Elves you stand alone." He grins again. "I'll wager not even Fëanor has as much blood on his hands."

"I'd guess you'd win that wager, my lord, and I have little to wager with besides. As for all my blood-shedding, what can I tell you?"

_And yet this may be fate's providence as well._

_For there is something only you…_

_That_ only _you…_

"Lord Ulmo told me himself he thought I was the only one capable of such a thing."

He doubts he is the only Elf who ever lived who could have performed such a kinslaying, but to be both willing, able, and likely to be accepted by Melkor… that was something he couldn't think of another candidate for.

It had had to be him. Him and his gnawing darkness.

"But then," he says, because he's always wanted to, "that's what you get for trusting someone who literally called themselves 'Lord of the Mole'."

"That is, indeed, what we get," says Sauron, teeth beginning to grit together as he talks. But then after a moment he manages to force down his rage long enough to inquire, "But there is still one, single little thing I don't yet understand, oh Lord of Moles – and that is that the key is only that, a key. Ulmo could use it to decode a message, but it was not that message itself. Tell me – how did you get the news of our battle plans to the enemy?"

Maeglin sighs.

"I suppose I have no reason to keep it a secret now," he muses out loud.

But then he sees the delight behind Sauron's casual gesture to continue and smirks back.

"… except to annoy you as much as you have me these past three decades."

The chamber literally heats up and fire flies down the walkway on either side of him. His Beetles waiting at the door can hear everything, but they have not entered the room to try and intervene still, and Maeglin takes a sliver of comfort in this even as he grits his teeth in the heat. Hopefully it means the final Protocol will be activated soon, and perhaps a few lives will be saved because of it.

Not that he cares about such things. Or maybe he does, he's been so numb for so long he sometimes can't quite tell what's going on beneath that, nor see himself through the blackness.

_"… for you keep such a secret of your heart my prince, and I wish for you to let us have at least a glimpse of it, at least once."_

Poor Salgant. He'll never know he was the one who gave Maeglin the idea for passing messages, all those Ages ago. His stupid bees that danced to communicate.

Maeglin's Swarm does not dance, unless you have the loosest definition of 'dance' known to Man or Elf, but they are co-ordinated with incredibly precise manoeuvres so as not to crash into each other when 'Swarming', even when a few at a time break formation as if to attack before re-joining.

Fourteen and two.

Two and thirty.

Nine and forty-three.

It all depends on what the message is. The cipher is complex enough that few Men could have broken it, even if they had watched hour after hour of recording of the Swarm in motion, and fortunately none seem to have done so. Melkor relies on the Swarm so much to make up for the dearth in orc soldiers that Maeglin can sometimes send more than one message a day, and as long as they're near open water, Ulmo or his servants will see it.

It has been fortunate that the effect is also intimidating enough that he could pass it off as being for the purpose of intimidation, and not a code.

"Annoying is one word for it," Sauron tells him, calming himself for the moment and smiling pleasantly as the violence in his eyes burns hotter and hotter. He sighs. "What a strange creature you are, Lómion. All those people dead… your poor uncle – both of them, I suppose – your _father_. Did Ulmo promise you he'd save you when this moment came? Here, as far inland as one can get and miles underground? Did he tell you you'd earn the love and adulation of your people – of your cousin, when all was revealed?"

Such things have truly never even crossed Maeglin's mind.

"As I said," he replies, "All he told me was that I was the only one who could do this thing. As for my cousin, well. I did tell you all my actions were for her sake, thirty thousand years ago, but then I could see it in our master's eyes that a desire merely for the power and the riches he promised wasn't going to convince him. Actually, I didn't even like Idril all that much."

That's true – he had not liked her. Whether he had ever loved her, that he cannot say. Probably not, not as Elves would measure love, but maybe as some Men might. Men who, though the words they tried to put such feelings into were often trite and clumsy ( _Tender in the Dark_ indeed…), seemed to know what it is in their hearts to have…

… _obsession_ , for someone.

He thinks that obsession might have died by now, along with the rest of him, but then he hasn't seen her in all that time and fortunately for all he never will now.

He can feel the darkness holding its breath just before it plunges down upon him.

"And what of the rest of your family, princeling?" Sauron snaps, this last revelation of trickery enough to push him from false affability into the beginnings of his true feelings. "Your grandfather, your mother; all those greatly beloved heroes who you have never even met? Were all your words of contempt for them a parcel of lies also? I cannot believe it. Your hatred and resentment are real, real as mine are – thou canst not tell me there is actually a well of faith and love in thy heart for the Children of Illuvatar!"

By the time this tirade finishes it is snarled as if from the maw of a wolf; Sauron slipping back into a more archaic dialect in his anger, and Maeglin feels the shiver in his shoulders as he drifts between his numbness and his terror.

Still, he laughs and tells the Maia –

"Hardly. My family are fools on either side and I only a part of them in probably being the biggest fool of them all."

He feels his mouth twist into a grin wider than any he has ever made.

"Nonetheless, I have just a little more respect for them than someone who was so afraid of a spider that the entire world heard him screaming at it."

That's the point he finally turns his eyes on Melkor.

Melkor, who has been lurking there and simmering while Sauron performs this cursory interrogation.

Melkor, so boiled over with rage at those last words, that whatever plans they may have concocted for what they were going to do with him go out the window.

Melkor, eyes ablaze and empty at the same time, the root of all the suffering of his family…

… and yet so easily manipulated.

This terrifying entity of unimaginable power strides forth, possessed by cavernous fury, sweeps Sauron against the railing of the walkway without a care and with one massive, foul paw he reaches out and grabs Maeglin fully in his fist, claws just scraping his thumbnail when he squeezes.

Maeglin feels his armour, the same armour that deflects bullets, creak and bend and feels it collapse around his arms and shoulders, the body-plates constricting around his chest, crushing – the blood racing to his head, the breath stolen from his lungs.

He looks up into Melkor's awful eyes.

And Melkor looks back at him.

The moment goes on. He hears Sauron yelling something in the background.

And then Melkor swings him around like he would his hammer, straight into the protective glass.

Such a powerful blow shatters even such glass as is suitable to shield their main energy source. The portal will collapse in on itself within a few moments after the protective casing is breached, in accordance with the system failsafes, but it won't be soon enough.

He's in a blizzard of glass just like his dreams have shown him. There's an impact against his back, but no pain; he sees his own black hair flying up, the shards cutting through a raven strand or two. One nicks his cheek and shoots away stained crimson.

It's like the whole world breaks into a kaleidoscope, and he is flying…

…

Flying…

…

Flying…

Just like that night in Gondolin, that seems as if it might have been but yesterday, except this time he doesn't drop.

This time it feels right.

He hears someone scream something – Sauron again probably, and for a moment the light of the white room seems to shine all the brighter.

And then...

…

…

…

... then he's deep in the Void.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Death comes no later than it had when he'd hit the bottom of that cliff, so quickly he can barely register anything, let alone pain. His blood freezes instantly, a ruby droplet from the cut on his cheek breaking off and bursting into powder a fraction of a second before his entire body breaks up the same way, the armour around it rending open, and every molecule flying off into the endless black.

...

...

Then he's just floating there. Unhoused.

No sound.

No light.

Nothing.

…

Nothing.

…

…

Just nothing.

…

Nothing forever now. As Melkor had said once, even if Manwe himself tries to brave the Void to find him he might search a million years and not come across the slightest trace.

There is only darkness.

…

But then…

…

(no pain, no fear, no _guilt_ )

…

He is a dark elf.

And he'd have laughed to himself about it if he could have, because if Melkor thinks it is a terrible fate for him to have been cast into the Void then he truly is an idiot.

Maeglin is a Dark Elf.

And the only time the light hadn't been so harsh it burned him…

…

...

… was when it had been caught upon her hair.

…

…

…

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

JULY 21ST, SEVENTH AGE OF THE SUN YEAR 2345/AGE OF REUNION YEAR 27

ADMIN TERMINATED 22:54:34

PROTOCOL ALPHA-ONE INITIATED

SECONDARY ADMIN ENGAGED

PRIORITY ONE TARGET: BATTLESHIP ULTIMATE ANNIHILATION

SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: RETRIEVAL OF DESIGNATED ADMINISTRATOR #2

TERTIARY OBJECTIVE: AUDIO FILE #0001 TO ADMIN 2

FILE READS:

…

…

"ALL RIGHT. IF YOU ARE LISTENING TO THIS PRE-RECORDED MESSAGE, THEN MY COVER HAS BEEN BROKEN AND I AM EITHER DEAD OR CAPTIVE.

"MORE LIKELY THE FORMER, FROM WHAT I FEEL ABOUT THE SITUATION – AND CERTAINLY THAT WOULD BE THE PREFERRED OUTCOME, AS I CANNOT PRETEND I WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO REVEAL INFORMATION DAMAGING TO… TO OUR FORCES, UNDER TORTURE.

"EITHER WAY, I WOULD HAVE YOU KNOW THAT THE DECISION TO TRANSFER COMMAND OF THE UNITS TO YOU IN THE EVENT OF MY BEING DISCOVERED AND INCAPACITATED BY THE ENEMY IS ONE YOU SHOULD NOT READ TOO MUCH INTO. IT IS LARGELY PREDICATED ON PRACTICAL CONCERNS.

"YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WITH THE KNOWLEDGE TO UTILISE THE SWARM EFFECTIVELY AND EFFECT NECESSARY REPAIRS AND UPGRADES. THERE WILL BE A SET OF INSTRUCTIONS DELIVERED TO YOU SHORTLY TO ASSIST WITH THIS, THOUGH THEY WILL NOT BE ALL-EXHAUSTIVE, AND FOR TWO REASONS.

"FIRSTLY, TO PREVENT AN ALL-EXHAUSTIVE BLUEPRINT FOR THE SWARM FROM FALLING INTO THE WRONG HANDS.

"SECONDLY, TO PREVENT YOU FROM EFFECTING ANY CHANGES TO THE ALPHA PROTOCOLS. AS I SAID, I'M NOT LEAVING THEM IN YOUR CARE BECAUSE I TRUST YOU. THERE IS A CASE TO BE MADE FOR DECOMMISSIONING THE SWARM ENTIRELY TO PREVENT TAMPERING BY THE ENEMY, BUT THAT WILL NOT BE MY DECISION.

"AS FOR ANYTHING ELSE THERE IS VERY LITTLE FOR ME TO SAY. THERE ARE THOSE WHO I WOULD HAVE UNDERSTAND… THAT I TRULY DO NOT REGRET MY CHOICES – AT LEAST NOT MY CHOICES SINCE MY FIRST CAPTURE, WHICH I REGRET VERY MUCH.

"BUT I AM NOT AFRAID OF THE DARK, NOR WILL I EVER BE.

"YOU MAY PASS THIS ALONG TO MY MOTHER, IF YOU SO CHOOSE. OR YOU MAY NOT, IT DOESN'T REALLY MATTER IN THE END.

…

…

"WELL. SO MUCH FOR SENTIMENT. I WISH YOU AND YOUR ENDEAVOURS THE BEST OF LUCK.

…

…

…

"NAMARIE."

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Eöl finishes the message for the sixty-seventh time and reaches for his coat, standing up from the rushing stream he's been using as a mirror.

A nest of bloodstained silver-white hair floats along the surface, before it hits a rock and sways gently against it.

He runs his fingers through the wet and newly shortened strands still on his scalp then tugs the long black coat onto the lash-worn, bandaged skin across his body. Two of the latest cuts had required stitches; and it's a good thing Maeglin has programmed his toys to be more proficient in field-medicine than they are in catching falling Elves, for it had been their rough handling that had caused the wounds in the first place.

 _Forty thousand robots on the verge of gaining sentience_ , he thinks, and sighs. He's not sure he's ready to be a grandfather.

He's barely forty thousand years old himself.

"Is the ship ready?" he asks the nearest Beetle.

"Affirmative," says the Unit.

It's an answer that deserves an eye-roll. Of course the boy has made his children answer 'affirmative' instead of 'yes' – what self-important Noldor wouldn't want to take four times as long as needed to make a simple statement?

He's had a long time hanging from those shackles on Morgoth's warship to decide whether or not he wants to re-program their language matrices.

Probably not worth it.

Probably not a good idea, while he can't decide whether it hurts too much to be reminded of the boy every time he has to hear one of them talk.

Probably better that way than to let himself go numb. He's had ample evidence that it's not a good thing to be numb.

"All built to the specifications I gave you?" he asks.

"Affirmative."

…

…

It's been four days since his son died.

Again.

"And the generators are prepared?"

"Affirmative. We await command to execute Stratagem 02-SR-001 from Administrator."

Well.

That's Eöl now. So he supposes he'd better give the command.

First he re-attaches his belt and holster, then slides his sword-and-scabbard through a loop. He likely won't be needing weapons where he's going, and if he does he doubts a sword and two pistols are going to be of much more use than the army of killer robots that are now at his beck and call, but you never know.

It's a beautiful day, or he imagines it is according to general consensus. If he wasn't under the cover of the leaves – pitiful as they are in comparison to those of his old home – his skin would probably be going red. The burning sun lights up the greenery from beneath, making it seem yellower than Eöl's soul sees it, and even now he shakes his head at the wretched fireball.

There's no point in delaying longer, at any rate.

"Consider this the command then, unless my son decided I'd need a secret password to unlock the stratagem."

Unit 43-E flashes its antenna. "Negative. Admin-One did not make allowances for this stratagem. Data suggests Admin-One intended Admin-Two to transfer Unit command to Valinorian Administration for combat purposes."

Eöl takes an extra second to parse through that.

"You mean you think my son would have wanted me to take you to Aman and offer you up to the Noldor for their use in the fight against Morgoth?"

"Affirmative," says 43-E.

Eöl laughs.

"Nah, fuck those guys. Take me to the ship, 43-E."

"As you command."

The ship in question is his son's _Eclipse_ – or rather, its back-up, since the original's very timely self-destruction – retro-fitted for the journey it has ahead according to specifications Eöl has had just as long to think about.

He's known where this has all been headed for a long time too. His eyes may not be as sharp as his little Sharp Glance's, but they can still see, far and piercingly, and even though it had been as clear that Maeglin would accept his fate as that his fate was what it was…

He looks quickly over the vessel and all seems well. And he supposes if it isn't, there'll be little enough time to complain about it. Would that he could have done more of the work himself but, in his injured state and with the better part of forty thousand robots needing to be moved, and quickly, it simply had not been possible.

Well, he's overseen it and that will have to do.

"Is the final component ready to be placed?" he asks.

Another Unit, 326-E, comes forward with a _galvorn_ box – the same box Maeglin had used almost thirty years ago to produce the same component.

The Silmaril.

Not as difficult to hide as forty thousand robots, but Eöl still lifts the lid only a fraction before shutting it again, gesturing for 326-E to take it into position. The same light the Sun is made of had shone forth, and he doesn't want to attract any attention even at this late stage of proceedings, nor endure that light longer than he has to.

"Noldor-made trash," he mutters. "But I know good old Fëanor would gladly let me borrow it – out of respect for a superior smith, of course."

A wide grin appears on his face as he imagines Fëanor's 'gladness'.

Then another Beetle pipes up,

"Available data suggests the probability that Unit Fëanor Finwëion would allow Admin-Two usage of the Silmaril component is higher if assumed caused by recognition of mutual paternal affinities. This probability remains Low to Very Low, however."

Eöl laughs for the first time in as long as he can remember. He glances at the serial number on the Unit's arm, 1111-J and claps it on its cold, unyielding shoulder.

"Well, if he has a problem with it, he'll just have to come find me and confront me about it, won't he? Come along, children – follow Grandpa now."

Since grandparents are traditionally less strict than parents with their children, Eöl decides not to scold Unit 1111-J for daring to show signs of sentient thought, nor does he plan to do so for other such displays from other Beetles in the future. He could have told Maeglin twenty-seven years ago that his creations had been bound to end up more than machines with all the heart the boy had put into them, but Maeglin would not have believed he'd had enough heart to give, and so Eöl had kept his silence.

He wonders though, how much of the aftermath of his son's death had been programmed into the Swarm and how much had been the Swarm's own decision.

The way the Beetles who had been deployed to Contari Point decided not to retreat immediately and instead remained to finish the battle… after switching sides and abruptly slaughtering the Men and orcs who had seconds ago been their allies – for instance.

The way the cabinet guard had promptly murdered the entire cabinet instead of just abandoning them was also an ambiguous move.

The rumour he'd heard that though one of the Beetle guards Maeglin had brought to Khazad-dum with him had retreated as soon as Maeglin had been gone, the other had launched itself at Melkor and shot him in the eye before self-destructing…

But he's pretty sure the suicide-run of the _Eclipse_ straight into _Ultimate Annihilation's_ main engine, causing the entire carrier to blow up and shower down upon western Middle-Earth in a hail of twisted burnt debris was a deliberately programmed manoeuvre.

As was the fact that instead of Beetles merely collecting him from his cell and removing him from _Annihilation_ in a shuttlecraft, the computer had unceremoniously dumped him out of an airlock and into freefall.

One of Maeglin's little jokes – him having inherited his father's sense of humour. Possibly pay-back for that poison-dart episode – since his son has inherited his propensity to hold grudges too.

That's one of the many reason's Eöl isn't going to Valinor, of course. He'd be compelled to have the Beetles throw his dear brother-in-law off the nearest precipice, and then family dinners would become really awkward.

Knowing Maeglin though, the not-throwing-of-Turgon-off-a-cliff is one of those core Protocols Eöl can't change.

The boy isn't only his father's son, no matter what the chroniclers said.

Maybe they'll say differently now.

Eöl boards the ship and has the engines started, Unit 1111-J at his side as his new personal assistant. Maeglin wouldn't have wanted him to start favouring any one Beetle over any of the others, had made sure the Units rotated their duties regularly so he hadn't been in danger of it himself, but Eöl has a long dark road ahead of him, and little else in terms of prospective company.

He sees no danger in getting to know his son's creations a little better as individuals. Perhaps encourage that individuality. It's going to be kind of lonely otherwise, and Eöl hates loneliness even more than he hates other people.

_Listen to me._

_If you ever try to leave me…_

_I will hunt you down…_

_And I will bring you back…_

He sits in the captain's chair, on the bridge of the ship, and watches the generators positioned on the view screen. The sky around them is filled with Beetles, like he's in the midst of a swarm of giant locusts. Thirty-seven thousand, one hundred and forty of them to be more precise than the full-compliment number he's been throwing around as though that number hadn't been depleted at Contari.

Outside, seven Beetles hold the seven generators in an equilateral vertical heptagram in front of the ship.

"Open the portal," he tells them.

The lights on the machines come to life, and there's an ominous whine across their commlink. Eöl turns to 1111-J

"Remind me again what our chances are?"

"Negligible," says the robot.

Eöl rolls his eyes. "Don't be smart with me, I mean specifically."

"That we will locate Admin-One within one million years of the Sun upon entering the Void is calculated at a probability of one to one times ten to the power of 28375987598 – "

"Right," Eöl interrupts, rubbing his brow. "Well, here goes almost nothing then."

Before them the portal to the Void opens.

Eöl presses a few keys at his side, and the _galvorn_ cover folded around the Silmaril, now that it's been mounted in position at the front of the ship opens, and retracts back into the hull.

The Silmaril shines deep into the nothingness.

Eöl takes a deep breath.

…

_Hunt you down._

_…_

_Bring you back._

…

"Pilot, take us in," he orders.

He flies his ship into the Void, and the better part of forty-thousand combat-Beetles, now search-and-rescue robots, fly in after him.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 


End file.
